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GEORGE   CANTERBURY'S   WILL. 


BY 


MRS.    HENRY   WOOD. 

AUTHOR     OF      "EAST     LYNNE,"      "ROLAND    YORKE,"     "THE      CHANNINGS," 

"MILDRED     ARKELL,"     "THE    LOST    WILL,"     "THE    HAUNTED     TOWER," 

"A   LIFE'S    SECRET,"    "THE    MYSTERY,"     "THE    RUNAWAY    MATCH," 

"LORD     OAKBURN'S      DAUGHTERS;      OR,     THE     EARL'S    HEIRS," 

"  VERNER'S  PRIDE,"  "OSWALD  CRAY,"  "  ST.  MARTIN'S  EVE,': 

"  THE    CASTLE'S  HEIR  ;   OR,  LADY  ADELAIDE'S  OATH," 

"SQUIRE   TREVLYN'S    HEIR,"    "  ELSTER'S    FOLLY," 

"  SHADOW  OF  ASHLYDY  AT,"  "WILLIAM  ALL  AIR," 

"ORVILLE  COLLEGE,"  "  LOST  BANK  NOTE," 

"  THE  FOGGY  NIGHT  AT  OFFORD,"  ETC. 


Printed  from  the  author's  Manuscript  and  advanced  Proof-sheets,  purchased 

by  us  from  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  and  issued  here  simultaneously 

with  the  publication  of  the  work  in  Europe. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
T.   B.   PETERSON    &    BROTHERS; 

306      CHESTNUT      STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S70,  by 

T.     B.     PETERSON     &     BROTHERS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


MRS.  HENRY  WOOD'S  NOVELS. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL.     One  volume,  octavo.     Price    $1.50  in 

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ROLAND    YORKE.     A   Sequel  to    "THE     CHANNINGS."      One    volume, 

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CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Page 

I.— IN  THE  EVENING  LIGHT 21 

II.— DOWN  AT  CHILLING 29 

III.— WITH  LADY  KAGE 33 

.IV.— KEZIAH  DAWKES 38 

V.— CALLED  UP  BY  TELEGRAM 45 

VI.— UNDER  THE  MOONLIT  SKY 50 

VII— ENTERING  ON  A  NEW  HOME 58 

VIII —A  TERRIBLE  FEAR 64 

IX.— SUNSHINE  GONE  OUT  FOREVER 72 

X.— COMING  HOME 80 

XL— IN  THE  EVENING  PAPER 87 

XII.— THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  FUTURE 93 

XIII.— AT  THE  ROCK 103 

XIV.— A  SOLEMN  WARNING 109 

XV— DISINHERITED 117 

XVI.— SPRING  ROUND  AGAIN 122 

XVII—  LOVE  AT  LAST 127 

XVIIL— THE  FUNERAL 133 

XIX.— MORE  VIGOROUS  THAN  EVER 138 

XX.— A  PAINFUL  INTERVIEW 144 

XXL— CAPTAIN   DAWKES  IN  TOWN 152 

XXIL— PLAYING  FOR  HIGH  STAKES 156 

XXIII.— BREAKING  THE  NEWS  TO  BELLE 162 

XXIV.— AT  MRS.  RICHARD  DUNN'S 167 

XXV.— AT  THE  FESTIVE  BOARD 172 

XXVI.— MRS.  GARSTON'S  PURCHASE 178 

XXVII— NOT  QUITE  HEARTLESS 183 

XXVIIL— A  FEW  WHISPERED  WORDS 186 

XXIX.— CALLED  OUT  OF  THE  RECEPTION-ROOM 191 

XXX.— AN  OLD  WARNING  RECALLED 195 

XXXL— VERY  UNSATISFACTORY 200 

(19) 


20  CONTENTS. 

Chapter  Page 

XXXII.— MRS.  DAWKES  AT  HOME 203 

[  XXXIII.— A  FLOOD  OF  GOLDEN  SUNLIGHT 210 

.XXXIV.— "DIED  IN  A  FIT." 213 

|  XXXV.— ENSHROUDED  IN  MYSTERY 219 

XXXVI.— THE  POSTERN  DOOR 226 

XXXVII.— IN  THE  SOUTH  WING 232 

XXXVIII.— ON  THE  WATCH 239 

XXXIX.— SEARCHING  FOR  FENCING-STICKS 246 

XL.— THE  LAWYER'S  SECRET  VISIT 252 

XLL— THE  LAST  AND  FINAL  WILL 257 

XLIL— CONCLUSION .• 265 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

IN    THE    EVENING    LIGHT. 

Nothing  could  be  more  beautiful. 
The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west,  cast- 
ing direct  rays  on  the  long  line  of  blue 
water,  in  a  flood  of  golden  brightness. 
It  shone  on  the  white  sails  of  the  pleas- 
ure-boats, on  the  fishing-craft  putting 
out  for  their  night's  work  ;  it  brought 
into  clearer  distinctness  the  fine  vessels 
passing  far  away  on  their  course ;  it 
played  on  the  chain  of  mountains  that 
terminated  the  land  prospect  to  the  right, 
stretching  their  undulating  outline  miles 
on  in  the  distance.  Calm,  soothing,  still. 
The  turbulent  sea-waves  were  unseen 
this  evening ;  the  froth  and  foam  rose 
not.  All  the  world  seemed  to  be  at  rest 
from  its  troubles  and  its  turmoil,  its  sin- 
ful passions  and  petty  strifes,  as  if  it 
would  impart  to  men's  hearts  a  foretaste 
of  that  peace  which  shall  be  realized 
only  in  heaven. 

The  place,  Little  Bay,  was  a  small 
quiet  Welsh  watering-place,  where  the 
bathing  was  good,  the  air  salubrious,  and 
the  sea-view  of  vast  extent.  Little  fre- 
quented in  those  earlier  days,  it  was  of 
meek  pretension  and  very  reasonable,  en- 
tertaining no  prevision  of  the  fashiona- 
ble resort  it  was  destined  afterwards  to 
become. 

Within  a  large  open  bow-window, 
partly  looking  out  on  the  scene  that 
one  of  them,  so  loved,  partly  listening  to 
the  desultory  talk  of  a  gentleman  who 
stood  outside  and  leaned  his  arms  on  its 
frame,   were    two    girls.     She  who  was 


next  to  him,  answering  his  repartees  be- 
fore they  were  well  spoken,  was  richly 
dressed  in  charming  blue  silk  and  lace — 
a  young,  fair,  bright  girl  of  seventeen, 
in  appearance  almost  a  child  ;  her  laugh- 
ing eyes  of  a  purple  blue,  her  hair  dark 
brown  and  luxuriant,  her  cheeks  rival- 
ing the  hue  of  the  damask  rose — alto- 
gether as  lovely  a  vision  of  beauty  as 
ever  enthralled  the  senses  of  man.  The 
other  was  very  nice-looking  also,  but  of 
quieter  aspect.  A  gentle  girl,  she,  just 
nineteen,  with  large  shy  hazel  eyes,  hair 
of  a  lighter  shade  of  brown,  a  complex- 
ion fair  and  rather  pale — a  soft  sweet 
face  that  was  pleasant  to  look  upon. 
Sh§  was  taller  than  her  companion,  and 
yet  not  more  than  of  middle  height ; 
her  dress  was  a  simple  muslin,  costing 
at  most  but  a  few  shillings.  You  can- 
not judge  by  dress  of  the  ways  and 
means  of  its  wearer,  as  all  the  world 
knows.  The  richly-dressed  girl  in  her 
blue  silk  and  its  costly  Honiton  lace — 
Caroline  Kage — had  been  straitened  in 
means  all  her  life,  and  never  expected  to 
be  lifted  out  of  the  straits  except  by 
some  fortunate  marriage ;  the  other 
would  probably  inherit  at  least  a  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds,  for  she  was  one 
of  the  daughters  of  the  rich  Mr.  Can- 
terbury, of  Chilling. 

And  he  who  talked  to  them — Thomas 
Kage?  He  was  a  barrister  by  profes- 
sion, and  had  to  work  hard  for  his  liv- 
ing, not  expecting  to  be  helped  by  so 
much  as  a  shilling  from  anybody  in  the 
world.  A  slight-made  man,  appearing 
from   his  slenderness   almost  of  middle 

(21) 


22 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


height,  hut  not  so  in  reality.  His  hair 
and  eyes  were  dark  ;  his  face,  nothing 
to  hoast  of,  was  honest,  genial,  true. 
People  called  Thomas  Kage  "  plain," 
and  plain  he  was,  judging  him  by  the 
lines  of  severe  beauty  ;  hut  the  coun- 
tenance was  a  good  countenance,  carry- 
ing its  own  index  straight  to  the  hearts 
of  discerning  men. 

It  was  the  third  week  in  September ; 
they  had  gone  to  the  seaside  the  third 
week  in  August ;  so  that  for  a  month 
now  he  and  these  two  girls  had  been 
daily  and  almost  hourly  companions. 
The  result  was  one  that  is  not  rare. 
Which  of  the  two  had  learnt  to  love  him 
most,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  Mil- 
licent  Canterbury  had  never  met  him  in 
her  life  before  ;  Caroline  Kage  had, 
though  not  frequently  :  he  and  she  were 
cousins  several  degrees  removed. 

"  Why  are  you  so  serious,  Miss  Can- 
terbury ?  "  he  suddenly  asked,  bending 
his  head  more  forward  to  look  at  her 
where  she  sat,  a  little  back  from  the 
window. 

"  Am    I   serious  ? "    she    returned,  a 
pink     blush     mantling    in    her    smooth 
cheek   at  his  words,  and  she  bent   her 
too-conscious  face  to  hide  it. 
"  At  least,  you  are  silent. " 
"I  was  listening  to  you  and  Caroline." 
"  I  think  you  generally  prefer  listen- 
ing to  talking,"  he  said,  a  smile  of  rare 
sweetness  breaking  over  his  lips.     Tjjiat 
smile  was  the  one  sole  beauty  of  Thomas 
Kage's  face,  redeeming  it  from  its   re- 
proach while  it  lasted. 
"  Do  I  ?  " 

Do  I !  Carelessly  though  the  answer- 
ing words  were  given,  Millicent  Canter- 
bury knew  that  the  charge  was  widely 
true,  and  the  pink  blush  increased  to 
crimson.  When  in  his  presence,  she 
could  no  more  have  been  free  of  tongue 
than  a  mute:  her  love  for  him  was  ear- 
nest, real,  passionate ;  and  this  same 
love,  as  most  of  us  know,  chains  the  lips 
when  in  the  presence  of  its  idol. 

"  And  do  you  agree  with  Caroline  or 
with  me  ?  " 

"  With  you,"  Millicent  was  obliged  to 
confess,  for  she  was  of  a  straight-forward 
nature,  knowing  nothing  of  evasion; 
but  the  avowal  caused  the  crimson  to 
become  as  a  very  spot  of  fire  ;  "  for  I  feel 
sure  Mrs.  Kage  will  not  allow  us  to  go." 
They  had  been  discussing  a  projected 
sail  for  the  morrow,  these  two  girls,  with 


Miss  Annesley  as  companion,  who  was 
staying  with  them,  and  Mr.  Kage  as 
protector.  Caroline  spoke  of  it  as  an 
event  sure  and  decided ;  he  had  quietly 
declared  it  would  turn  out  "  all  moon- 
shine." 

"  You  will  see,"  continued  Miss  Kage. 
— "  Leta,  what  in  the  world  are  your 
cheeks  so  scarlet  for? — And  I  think  it 
is  exceedingly  wicked  of  you,  Thomas,  to 
throw  cold  water  on  what  I  propose." 
Thomas  Kage  laughed. 

"  Cold  water !  Ah,  Caroline,  if  you 
only  knew  how  hot  the  water  I  would 
throw,  if  that  might  bring  the  sail  to 
fruition  ! "  he  pursued  in  a  tone  of  grav- 
er meaning.  "The  prospect  of  taking 
you  is  delightful,  but  it  will  not  be  real- 
ized. As  Miss  Canterbury  says,  your 
mother  would  not  permit  it." 

"  It  is  so  stupid  of  her  to  be  afraid  of 
the  water,"  said  Caroline  hastily.  "As 
if  people  got  drowned  in  a  calm  sea  !  " 

He  made  no  reply,  only  glanced  at  her, 
and  something  like  emotion  passed  over 
her  lovely  face.  She  was  conscious,  and 
he  was  conscious,  that  Mrs.  Kage's  veto 
would  not  be  laid  upon  the  expedition  on 
account  of  any  danger  they  might  incur, 
although  it  was  true  that  she  was  a  cow- 
ard in  regard  to  the  water,  but  because 
she  was  beginning  to  dread  this  frequent 
and  close  companionship. 

"  Mrs.  Kage  regards  the  sea  as  a 
treacherous  ogre,  waiting  always  to  swal- 
low up  the  unwary  who  may  venture  on 
it,  you  know,  Caroline,"  he  remarked  in- 
differently, as  he  opened  a  book  he  held 
and  turned  over  its  pages. 

"What  will  you  say  to  me  to-morrow 
morning  if  I  meet  you  with  the  news 
that  I  have  persuaded  mamma  into  con- 
senting? " 

"  I  shall  say  you  are  the  dearest  cous- 
in in  the  world — " 

"  That's  easily  said  when  you  have  no 
other,"  she  petulantly  interrupted." 

"  And  the  most  clever  of  diplomatists," 
he  continued.  "You  should  let  a  man 
finish,  Caroline.  I  wish  you  success,  but 
I  have  no  expectation  that  the  wish  will 
be  realised." 

"What  kind  of  wish  do  you  call  that, 
pray  ?  " 

"  A  faithless  one,  I  suppose." 

"Just  so.  And  I  will  convict  you  of 
shame  when  I  bring  you  mamma's  con- 
sent." 

"  So  be   it,  Caroline,"  he  answered. — 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


"  And  you,  Miss  Canterbury  ?    You  have 
not  said  you  will  go.     Will  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I — I  think  so,"  was  the  reply, 
given  with  some  hesitation.  "I  don't 
care  much  to  go  on  the  sea." 

"  Why,  I  have  heard  you  say  that  you 
love  the  sea." 

"  I  love  to  look  at  it.  Seeing  it  as  we 
do  from  these  windows,  I  cannot  imagine 
anything  in  the  world  more  beautiful.  I 
could  look  at  it  for  ever,  and  not  be  tir- 
ed :  watching  its  changing  colors;  spec- 
ulating on  the  large  vessels  that  pass; 
seeing  what  they  do  in  the  little  boats 
cruising  off  the  land.  My  love  for  the 
sea  is  something  strange.  But  on  it  I 
am  nearly  as  great  a  coward  as  Mrs. 
Kage :  and  in  rough  weather  I  am  so 
sea-sick ! " 

He  laughed  at  the  wind-up.  Caroline 
Kage  spoke  rather  testily. 

"  There's  no  particular  necessity  for 
your  going  into  raptures  over  the  sea, 
Leta,  if  you  do  love  it." 

'■No,"  said  Leta  in  a  meek  tone,  "of 
course  not." 

They  called  her  "Leta"  almost  always. 
When  a  little  child,  before  she  was  able 
to  speak  plain,  she  had  so  pronounced 
her  own  name  Millicent;  the  appellation 
had  never  left  her,  and  never  would. 

The  sun  went  down  in  a  blaze  of  gold. 
The  clear  and  beautiful  opal  tints,  seen 
only  in  the  north-western  sky,  succeeded 
to  it;    and  still  Thomas  Kage  stood  on. 

Suddenly,  as  if  prompted  by  some  mo- 
mentary recollection,  he  removed  his 
arms  from  the  window  to  look  at  his 
watch  ;  and  Caroline  saw  the  movement 
with  a  jealous  eye  and  failing  heart.  It 
seemed  to  foreshadow  his  departure  ;  and 
she  would  willingly  have  kept  him  by 
her  side  for  ever. 

"  WThy  do  you  not  come  in,  Thomas  ? 
The  idea  of  having  stayed  outside  all 
this  while ! " 

"  I  cannot  come  in  now.  I  promised 
my  mother  to  be  with  her  for  tea." 

"  How  many  more  evenings  will  you 
tell  us  that  ?  Your  mother  is  very  ex- 
acting." 

'■  Never  was  there  a  mother  less  so,"  he 
rejoined  emphatically,  a  glow  on  his  hon- 
est face.  "  But  she  likes  to  have  me  with 
her  at  tea;  and  I  have  been  keeping  her 
waiting  for  it.  Tiresome  sirens,  both  of 
you,  to  enchain  a  fellow  so,  and  cause 
him  to  forget  the  hour-glass  !  Farewell, 
and  better  manners  to  you." 


He  turned  down  the  gravel  path  with 
a  quick  step — the  house  stood  back  in  a 
garden — passed  through  the  gate,  and 
nodded  gaily  as  he  raised  his  hat.  It 
was  as  if  a  shadow  had  fallen  on  the 
hearts  of  both  ;  and  they  listened  in  si- 
lence and  sadness  to  the  echo  of  his  fleet 
footsteps. 

He  had  set  off  to  run  as  though  he 
were  a  school-boy.  Turning  a  bend  of 
the  road,  a  lady  came  in  view,  and  he 
had  to  slacken  speed.  It  was  Miss  An- 
nesley  ;  she  had  come  to  Little  Bay  with 
Mrs.  Kage. 

"  Are  you  bound  for  Mrs.  Garston's  ?" 
she  stopped  to  ask. 

"Not  now.  I  am  hastening  home  to 
my  mother." 

"  That  is  well,"  returned  Miss  Annes- 
ley  quaintly.  "  Had  you  been  going  to 
Mrs.  Garston,  I  should  have  said,  don't 
go.  She  is  cross  this  evening ;  cross 
with  you." 

"  I  know  I  ought  to  have  gone  there," 
he  confessed,  a  smile  breaking  over  his 
face.     "  That's  it,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  That  is  it.  And  I  was  charged  to  tell 
you,  if  we  by  chance  met,  that  she  would 
not  receive  you  now  until  to-morrow. 
She  means  it,  Mr.  Kage." 

"  Very  well.  I'll  go  and  make  my 
peace  with  her  then.  Thank  you.  Fare- 
well for  the  present." 

Resuming  his  quick  pace,  he  gained 
the  door  of  a  pretty  cottage,  also  facing 
the  sea.  A  staid,  hard  woman  of  fifty, 
as  tall  as  a  lighthouse,  admitted  him'. 

"  You  have  kept  your  mother  waiting 
a  long  while,  Mr.  Thomas,"  was  the 
greeting  he  received,  delivered  with  a 
severe  countenance.  "  She'd  not  let  the 
tea  be  made  till  you  came  in." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Dorothy,"  he  an- 
swered, never  thinking,  as  most  men  at 
his  age  would,  that  it  was  nearly  tkne 
Dorothy  left  off  her  lectures  to  him. 
She  had  nursed  him  when  a  baby,  and 
been  his  mother's  ever-faithful  atten- 
dant since,  through  good  and  ill,  for 
eight  -  and  -  twenty  years.  "  I  did  not 
happen  to  look  at  my  watch,  and  the 
time  slipped  on." 

"  I  think  I'd  leave  the  coming  home  to 
meals  an  open  question,  if  I  were  you, 
sir,  while  we  are  here.  My  lady  ought 
to  have  had  her  tea  early  this  evening, 
for  she's  got  a  fearful  bad  headache  come 
on." 

The  keeping  the  "  meals  "  waiting  by 


24 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


so  much  as  five  minutes  was  amidst  the 
catalogue  of  Dorothy's  cardinal  sins; 
and  Thomas  Kage  was  aware  he  had  not 
been  strictly  punctual  of  late. 

"A  headache  ! "  he  repeated  in  some 
surprise ;  for  Lady  Kage  was  not  sub- 
ject to  the  malady. 

"Yes,  she  have,"  said  Dorothy,  as 
Thomas  went  in. 

At  the  open  window  of  the  sitting- 
room  sat  Lady  Kage — a  gentle,  thought- 
ful woman,  with  a  countenance  as  good 
as  his  own,  and  a  voice  as  sweet.  She 
had  but  reached  the  age  which  women 
are  apt  to  call  middle  life ;  but  she  was 
in  ill  health,  and  her  delicate  face  looked 
careworn. 

"  My  darling  mother  !  "  he  said,  kiss- 
ing her  fondly  ;  "lam  so  sorry." 
"  Sorry  for  what,  Thomas  ?  " 
"  For  keeping  you  waiting  tea.     Why 
did    you    not   take    it  ?     Dorothy    says 
your  head  is  bad." 

She  kept  his  hand  in  hers;  and  her  eyes, 
looking  up  to  his,  were  full  of  smiles. 
"  Dorothy  has  been  talking,  I  see." 
"  That  she  has,  giving  it  me  well. 
But  you  ought  to  have  had  your  tea, 
mother  dear.  You  don't  know  how 
these  things  pain  me." 

"  They  need  not,  Thomas." 
"They  do,  though,  and  bring  home  to 
me  all  my  selfish  ingratitude.  If  I 
were  wanting  my  tea,  and  you  out,  I 
should  be  sure  to  order  it  without 
thought  of  you." 

"  That  you  would  not,  if  you  expected 
me  to  come  home  ;  no,  though  your  head 
were  splitting  for  want  of  it,  which 
mine  is  not." 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  let  the 
time  slip  on  unheeded.  I  was  talking 
with  Miss  Canterbury  and  Caroline. 
What  can  have  given  you  the  headache, 
mother  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  walked  too  far  this  morn- 
ing. I  mean  to  have  a  whole  day's  rest 
to-morrow  indoors." 

It  may  almost  be  said  that  Lady 
Kage  answered  mechanically ;  for  her 
thoughts,  as  she  spoke,  were  far  away. 
The  time  had  slipped  on  unheeded, 
"  talking  with  Miss  Canterbury  and 
Caroline." 

Mr.  Kage's  apologies  of  late  had 
been  so  entirely  similar  to  this  present 
one,  that  the  suspicion  hovering  in  his 
mother's  mind  grew  greater  and  greater. 


That  he  must  be  learning  to  love  one 
of  those  two  young  ladies  she  felt  as 
sure  of  as  though  she  could  look  into 
his  heart  and  read  it.  Which  of  them 
was  it  ? 

Dorothy  brought  in  the  tea-tray,  and 
placed  it  on  the  side  of  the  table  farthest 
from  her  mistress. 

"  Mr.  Thomas  can  pour  it  out  this  eve- 
ning, as  you  feel  ill,  my  lady,"  decided 
she,  with  the  privileged  authority  of  one 
used  to  have  her  way. —  "It's  quite 
ready,  sir." 

He  laughed  as  he  sat  down,  saying 
he  hoped  he  should  not  put  the  cream 
and  sugar  into  the  tea-pot  instead  of 
the  cups. 

Thomas  Kage  had  not  roughed  it  in 
chambers  or  lodgings  as  three-fourths 
of  the  young  men  have  :  his  mother's 
home  in  London  was  his  home,  and  his 
mother  indulgently  did  all  things  for 
him.  The  world  guessed  little  how 
very  simple  the  home  was,  or  how 
entirely  happy  they  were  in  it*.  Mother 
and  son  have  rarely  been  so  bound  in 
heart  together.     . 

Awkwardly  as  most  unaccustomed 
men,  Thomas  Kage  served  his  mother, 
with  her  tea  first,  and  then  poured  out 
his  own.  He  was  quite  unconscious 
that  his  cup  was  consequently  the 
stronger  of  the  two.  He  would  have 
given  her  every  good  at  his  own  expense 
that  this  world  can  bestow,  and  thought 
it  no  sacrifice. 

"  You  say  you  have  been  with  the  two 
young  ladies  this  evening?"  observed 
Lady  Kage. 

"  Are  you  sure  I  have  put  enough 
cream  and  sugar?  —  Y^es,  I  have  been 
with  them." 

"  As  usual — as  usual,  Thomas.     Are 
you   drifting   into    love    for   either   of 
them  ?  " 
"  Mother ! " 

It  was  all  very  well  to  say  "  Mother  !  " 
and  to  say  it  with  a  start ;  but  Lady 
Kage  could  not  avoid  seeing  one  thing, 
— that  her  son's  face  grew  red  and  con- 
scious as  a  girl's.  She  knew  now  that 
she  was  not  mistaken.  He  upset  some 
water  on  the  tea-tray,  in  a  sudden  effort 
to  drown  the  tea-pot. 

"  Which  of  the  two  is  it,  Thomas  ?  " 
she  quietly  asked. 

By  this  time  he  was  recovering  his 
self-possession    and    equanimity.      He 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


25 


looked  at  his  mother  in  the  twilight, 
and  then,  pausing,  sent  his  good,  dark, 
candid  eyes  rather  far  out  to  sea 
through  the  open  window. 

"  Mother,  I  think  you  are  mistaken  ; 
I  hope  you  are.  The  maddest  thing  I 
could  do  would  he  to  fall  in  love  with 
any  girl,  no  matter  whom  she  might  be. 
It  may  be  years — years  and  years — be- 
fore my  circumstances  enable  me  to 
think  of  a  wife,  if  they  ever  do." 

"  That  is  just  it,  Thomas.  Other- 
wise— " 

"  Otherwise  I  might  be  at  liberty  to 
fall  in  love  to-morrow,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh.  "Ah,  jres  ;  we  all  have  to  bend 
to  circumstances." 

Lady  Kage  did  not  dismiss  her 
opinion,  but  would  not  seem  to  pursue 
it. 

"  Which  of  the  two  (if  either)  would 
your  choice  have  fallen  upon,  Thomas  ? 
Miss  Canterbury  ?  " 

"  Miss  Canterbury  ! "  he  echoed  in 
surprise  so  genuine  that  something  like 
a  chill  struck  across  his  mother's  heart, 
and  destroyed  a  vision  that  had  been 
rearing  itself  in  fondness  before  her 
mind.  "  You  must  be  dreaming,  moth- 
er dear.  Miss  Canterbury  will  count 
her  money  by  scores  of  thousands,  per- 
haps by  hundreds  of  thousands.  Old 
Canterbury  may  be  worth  a  million." 

''  If  Millicent  Canterbury  is  rich  in 
wealth,  you  are  rich  in  worth,  Thomas. 
A  union  between  you  would  not  be  un- 
equal." 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head  at  the 
thought  of  his  mother's  partiality;  but 
his  answer  was  given  in  a  tone  of  firm 
decision  : 

"  It  would  be  so  unequal,  mother 
dear,  that  I  should  never  attempt  to  en- 
tertain it  for  a  moment — no,  not  though 
I  were  dying  of  love  for  her.  But  the 
thought  of  loving  Millicent  Canterbury 
has  never  entered  my  head ;  so  be  at 
ease." 

"  I  could  not  have  wished  a  better  wife 
for  you  than  Millicent  Canterbury ;  I 
never  met  a  sweeter  girl,"  spoke  Lady 
Kage.  "  As  to  Caroline,  Millicent  is 
worth  a  thousand  of  her." 

"  Caroline  is  as  poor  as  I  am  ;  and 
therefore,  to  speak  of  marriage  in  con- 
nection with  her,  would  be  talking  fruit- 
less nonsense,"  returned  Mr.  Kage,  an 
embarrassment    in    his    tone    that    his  I 


mother  did  not  like  to  hear,  for  it  be- 
trayed too  surely  where  his  affections 
laj*.     And  then  ensued  a  silence. 

Thomas  broke  it.  Lifting  his  head, 
after  a  pause  of  thought,  he  looked  full 
at  his  mother  in  the  deepening  twilight 
as  if  he  deemed  it  well  to  set  the  matter 
at  rest,  for  himself  as  well  as  her. 

"  I  was  twenty-seven  last  July,  moth- 
er, as  you  know  ;  and  I  am  earning  so 
little  at  my  profession,  as  you  also  know, 
getting  on  so  slowly  in  it — not  at  all,  in 
fact — that  the  chances  are  I  may  attain 
to  forty  years  of  age  without  being  able 
to  keep  a  wife  as  I  should  like  to  keep 
her.  Believe  me,  therefore,  there  is  no 
danger,  no  hope,  that  I  can  or  shall  fall 
in  love  to  any  purpose.  I  may  cast  a 
fancy  here,  I  may  cast  it  there,  but 
nothing  is  likely  to  result  from  it." 

"  I  should  not  wish  you  to  get  into 
hopeless  love,"  spoke  Lady  Kage  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  Nor  I.  But  if  I  did,  I  could  bear 
it." 

The  beautiful  opal  tints  in  the  clear 
north-western  slsy  grew  less  distinct  in 
the  fading  light.  Lady  Kage,  her  head 
growing  more  painful,  went  up  to  bed  ; 
and  Thomas  sat  alone,  with  his  own  re- 
flections. 

No,  there  might  be  no  thought  of 
marriage  for  him.  As  to  this  pleasant 
dream  he  had  been  lately  falling  into, 
why,  let  him  dream  on  while  he  might  ; 
it  would  not  be  for  so  very  long.  In 
October  the  sea-side  party  would  dis- 
perse, he  and  his  mother  for  London, 
the  others  for  their  far-away  home. 
And  then  ?  Then  would  come  for  him 
the  old  working  life  again,  during  which 
he  should  forget — forget,  or  pretend  at 
it.     And  she — 

"  Ain't  there  no  lights  wanted  here  ?  " 

The  interruption  came  from  Dorothy. 
She  had  opened  the  door,  crusty  still,  to 
ask  ;  and  Thomas  Kage  awoke  out  of 
himself  to  find  it  was  as  dark  as  it 
would  be  that  night. 

No,  no  lights  3ret.  The  clock  was 
striking  eight,  and  he  put  on  his  hat  and 
went  out. 

Calm,  warm,  light,  and  lovely  was  the 
night.  The  clear  sky  was  luminous,  the 
lights  from  the  different  vessels  on  the 
sea  twinkled  like  stars.  Passing  down  a 
turning,  he  came  to  a  house  that,  in  com- 
parison with  the  cottage  rented  by  his 


26 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


mother,  looked  like  a  mansion.     A  foot- 
man answered  his  knock. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Garston  retired  to  her 
room  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  not  yet." 

"Say  to  her,  then,  that  I  send  in  my 
kind  regards,  and  will  come  to  see  her 
after  breakfast  in  the  morning." 

Regard  for  the  very  old  lad}r  prompted 
him  to  come  and  say  this.  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton  was  eighty  years  of  age.  Never  had 
living  man  a  kinder  heart  than  Thomas 
Kage,  and  he  was  grieved  to  have  failed 
in  his  customary  visit  to  her.  And  he 
departed  on  his  way  again. 

On  the  lawn  before  Mrs.  Kage's  house, 
flitting  about  in  freedom,  were  the  two 
girls.  Mr.  Kage  joined  them.  Now 
they  stood  together  at  the  railings,  watch- 
ing the  aforesaid  lights,  and* tracking  the 
vessels  on  their  gentle  course  ;  now  they 
paced  the  walks,  now  rested  on  the  green 
bench  under  the  mulberry-tree.  But  the 
same  low,  unconsciously  tender  inter- 
change of  converse  was  ever  there.  The 
companionship,  becoming  all  too  sweet, 
was  not  interrupted.  Every  minute, 
every  hour,  as  they  went  by,  did  but  add 
strength  to  the  links  of  the  chain  by  which 
Fate  was  binding  the  three  hearts  togeth- 
er; indissolubl}-,  but  in  a  cross  and  con- 
trary fashion,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  fate 
to  do. 

'  Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned  it  in  his 

glowing  hands ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,   ran  itself  in  golden 

sands.' 

They  would  have  lingered  on  until 
midnight,  but  at  nearly  ten  o'clock  out 
came  Miss  Annesley.  She  was  a  good 
and  true  young  woman,  wanting  some 
years  of  thirty,  amiable,  prudent,  sensi- 
ble, and  calm  of  temperament ;  as  it  is 
only  right  the  daughter  of  an  earnest 
clergyman  should  be. 

"  Mrs.  Kage  is  so  vexed  that  you 
should  be  out  of  doors.  She  wishes  you 
to  come  in  at  once." 

"  Oh,  mamma  has  woke  up  at  last,  has 
she?"  responded  Caroline  carelessly. 
"  A  little  the  worse  in  temper  for  her 
long  sleep,  I  suppose." 

"You  must  know,  Caroline,  that  it  is 
high  time  you  did  come  in,"  said  Miss 
Annesley. 

"  There,  don't  preach,  Sarah  ;  we  are 
coming."  And  Millicent  was  the  first  to 
hasten  in. 


Years  and  years  before — say  thirty — 
an  officer  who  had  risen  rapidty  in  India, 
Colonel  Sir  Charles  Kage,  K.  C.  B.  came 
home  on  a  three  years'  leave,  with  his  wife 
and  little  daughter.  He  was  without 
connections  in  the  sense  that  the  word  is 
generally  understood,  only  possessing  a 
few  plain  relatives.  But  a  K.  C.  B.  is 
sure  to  find  friends  in  plenty ;  and  Sir 
Charles's  London  residence  was  soon 
overflowing  with  them.  Amidst  others, 
frequenting  it,  was  a  peer  who  had  nearly 
come  to  the  end  of  his  available  income 
— his  children  having  considerably  assis- 
ted in  its  disposal — and  consequently  he 
put  off  a  small  portion  of  his  superfluous 
pride  :  Lord  Gunse. 

The  object  which  had  chiefly  brought 
Sir  Charles  Kage  home  was  the  ill-health 
of  his  wife.  Just  for  a  few  weeks  she 
rallied,  but  only  to  sink  again  ;  and  in 
less  than  six  months  from  the  day  of 
their  landing  in  England,  she  died. 
The  little  girl,  Charlotte,  was  six  years 
old  then,  and  Sir  Charles  immediately 
took  a  young  lady  into  his  house  as  her 
governess.  She  was  a  Miss  Carr,  a  gen- 
tle, retiring,  unpretending  girl,  who  kept 
herself  in  all  humility  out  of  the  way  of 
Sir  Charles's  guests,  and  learnt  to  love 
the  little  Charlotte.  If  the  guests  by 
chance  saw  her,  they  took  no  notice  of 
her.  Lord  Gunse  and  Lady  Gunse  and 
the  Honorable  Misses  Gunse  quite  ignor- 
ed her.  In  point  of  fact,  those  aristo- 
cratic people,  had  they  condescended  to 
think  of  the  nursery  governess  at  all, 
would  have  classed  her  as  a  domestic. 
She  was  of  no  family ;  perhaps  had 
never  had  as  much  as  a  father  and 
mother. 

Lady  Gunse  and  the  Misses  Gunse 
were  at  that  time  much  at  Sir  Charles 
Kage's  house,  consoling  the  bereaved 
widower.  It  was  thought  by  the  maid- 
servants (who  are  generally  shrewd  ob- 
servers) that  their  master  might  have 
had  any  one  of  the  three  honorable 
young  ladies  for  the  asking.  A  fine  man 
of  only  five-and-forty,  a  K.  C.  B.  already, 
and  with  plenty  of  service  before  him, 
would  be  a  prifce  undoubtedly  in  the  mat- 
rimonial market. 

What,  then,  must  have  been  the  shock- 
ed indignation  of  this  noble  family  to 
awake  one  morning  to  the  news  of  Sir 
Charles  Kage's  marriage  ?  Just  twelve 
months   after  the   death  of  his  wife  he 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


27 


quietly  led  to  church  the  nursery  govern- 
ess, saying  nothing  to  anybody.  When 
taxed  with  his  crime  by  Lord  Gunse  (out 
of  pure  regard  for  Sir  Charles,  of  course, 
and  his  blighted  interests),  the  brave  sol- 
dier wrung  the  peer's  hand,  and  avowed 
that  the  good  qualities  of  Maria  Carr  had 
won  his  esteem  and  love,  and  that  he 
could  not  have  given  the  little  Charlotte 
a  more  loving  and  admirable  mother  had 
he  taken  the  whole  world  to  pick  and 
choose  from.  Of  course  she  was  young; 
he  did  not  deny  that ;  but  every  year  as 
it  went  by  would  remedy  the  defect. 

"  She  is  of  no  family,"  groaned  the 
wrathful  peer. 

"No  family!"  repeated  Sir  Charles. 
"  My  dear  lord,  she  is  of  as  good  a  fam- 
ily as  my  own." 

And  thus  the  patient,  humble  govern- 
ess, Maria  Carr,  had  become  the  second 
Lady  Kage. 

Poor  young  wife  !  A  child  was  born 
to  her  in  due  course,  a  little  boy,  who 
was  named  Thomas  Charles  Carr,  and 
she  was  the  happiest  of  the  happy.  Sir 
Charles  waited  for  the  christening,  and 
then  went  back  to  India,  for  his  leave 
was  up.  Lady  Kage  did  not  accompany 
him.  He  was  tender  of  her,  as  though 
she  were  some  rare  and  precious  plant, 
and  he  knew  she  was  scarcely  yet  strong 
enough  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  travel.  In 
the  course  of  the  year  she  and  Charlotte 
and  the  boy-baby  should  come  out  to 
him,  he  said ;  and  so  they  parted.  Part- 
ed to  meet  no  more  in  this  world,  for 
Sir  Charles  Kage  died  very  soon  after 
regaining  India. 

Upon  her  slender  pension,  which 
would  die  with  her,  Lady  Kage  had 
lived  since,  devoting  herself  to  the  two 
children,  her  step-daughter  and  son,  with 
equal  care  and  love.  None  save  herself 
and  Dorothy,  and  perhaps  her  dutiful, 
thoughtful  boy,  knew  how  she  had  man- 
aged, and  cut  and  contrived  her  income, 
so  as  to  educate  them  well  and  to  give 
him  his  terms  at  college.  Dorothy  — 
faithful  to  her  young  mistress,  stern  to 
everybody  else,  eating  ever  the  bread  of 
carefulness,  and  seeing  that  the  rest  ate 
it,  doing  the  work  of  ten — making  a  boast, 
of  waiting  on  her  lady  as  efficiently  in 
her  one  sole  person  as  if  she  had  had  at 
command  a  leash  of  helpmates. 

So  the  years  passed  on,  and  the  chil- 
dren    grew     up.      Charlotte     married: 


Thomas  qualified  himself  for  the  Bar. 
And  when  it  might  have  seemed  that 
Lady  Kage  could  have  taken  some  ease 
from  her  solicitude  and  care,  her  health 
began  to  fail.  Very  gradually  at  first. 
Even  Dorothy  saw  nothing  of  it ;  but  the 
development  of  the  disease,  which  the 
doctors  thought  was  connected  with  the 
heart,  was  more  rapid,  and  anxiety  su- 
pervened. Not  yet  alarm.  This  visit  to 
the  salubrious  Welsh  watering-place  was 
made  at  her  son's  earnest  solicitation,  in 
the  hope  that  change  of  air  might  restore 
her.  How  anxiously  Thomas  looked  at 
her  morning  after  morning  he  strove  to 
hide  from  all  eyes :  and  he  was  forced  to 
confess  to  his  heart  secretly  that  he  did 
not  discern  much  improvement. 

Back  again  for  an  instant  to  the  time 
of  Colonel  Sir  Charles  Kage's  residence 
in  London.  At  his  house  there  was  fre- 
quently to  be  met  a  distant  cousin  of  his, 
Alfred  Kage,  for  whom  he  had  purchased 
a  commission,  and  otherwise  befriended. 
He  was  a  very  handsome  and  gentlemanly 
young  fellow,  good  natured,  empty-head- 
ed. The  honorable  Misses  Gunse  liked 
to  talk  nonsense  with  him,  especially  the 
youngest  of  them,  Caroline,  who  was  as 
empty-headed  as  himself.  After  the 
startling  marriage  of  Sir  Charles,  Lord 
Gunse  gave  orders  that  the  intimacy  be- 
tween the  two  houses  should  peremptori- 
ly cease.  This  was  accomplished ;  but 
Lieutenant  Kage  and  Caroline  Gunse 
had  grown  really  attached  to  each  other ; 
and,  some  two  or  three  years  afterwards, 
she  married  him  in  defiance  of  parental 
displeasure.  They  had  nothing  but  his 
pay;  and  therefore  the  union,  to  a  per- 
son of  the  Honorable  Caroline  Gunse's 
expensive  tastes  could  not  be  said  to  have 
turned  out  felicitously.  He  lived  but 
about  ten  years,  attained  to  a  captaincy 
only,  and  left  her  with  one  child,  Caro- 
line, almost  an  infant.  Mrs.  Kage,  who 
was  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Kage  in  spite  of 
her  poverty,  and  prided  herself  upon  the 
fact,  retired  to  Chilling,  a  village  on  the 
border  of  Wales,  noted  for  its  lovely  scen- 
ery and  for  the  reasonableness  of  both 
rent  and  provisions,  and  there  establish- 
ed herself.  She  had  her  pension,  and  also 
a  small  income  left  her  by  one  of  her 
sisters  —  altogether  about  five  hundred 
a-year.  Caroline  was  turned  seventeen 
now,  more  lovely  than  her  mother  used  to 
be,  and  quite  as  wilful. 


28 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


It  was  somewhat  curious  that  Mrs. 
Kage  and  Lady  Kage  should  have  come 
to  sojourn  bjT  accident  this  year  at  the 
same  watering-place.  The}r  had  met  oc- 
casionally in  the  past  thirty  years ;  but 
the  old  dislike  and  scorn  felt  for  the  gov- 
erness, who  had  forgotten  herself  so  com- 
pletely as  to  suffer  a  K.  C.  B.  to  marry 
her,  had  little,  if  at  all,  abated.  The 
Honorable  Mrs.  Kage  was  decorously 
civil  when  face  to  face  with  her;  but  she 
generally  had  recourse  to  an  essence- 
bottle  if  Lady  Kage's  name  was  by 
chance  mentioned,  as  if  it  brought 
some  infection  with  it.  Mrs.  Kage  had 
grown  into  a  sigh-away,  die-awa}'  lady 
now,  liking  to  pass  her  time  on  a  sofa, 
surrounded  bjr  shawls  and  scents  and  easy 
indolence.  Her  soft  languor  and  show 
of  sweetness,  her  subdued  voice  of  affec- 
tation, might  have  taken  in  a  saint ;  but 
there  lived  not  a  woman  in  this  world  of 
deceit  more  utterly  heartless,  more  in- 
tensely, selfishly  alive  to  her  own  inter- 
ests, than  the  widow  of  Alfred  Kage. 

It  is  not  a  nice  thing  to  say  of  a  wo- 
man that  she  is  made  up  of  craft  within 
and  artlessness  without ;  but  it  must  be 
said  of  Mrs.  Kage,  for  it  was  the  simple 
truth.  Even  in  this  visit  of  hers  to  the 
seaside  she  had  craftily  contrived  to  come 
free,  at  the  cost  of  others.  But  for  hav- 
ing her  expenses  paid,  she  could  not  have 
ventured  on  it  at  all.  The  two  young 
ladies  she  had  brought  with  her — Sarah 
Annesley,  the  only  child  of  the  Kector  of 
Chilling,  and  Millicent,  the  youngest 
daughter  of  the  wealthy  George  Canter- 
bury— had  their  share  of  the  cost  so  libe- 
rally provided,  especially  the  latter,  that 
Mrs.  Kage's  pocket  escaped  scot-free,  as 
she  had  meant  it  to  do.  In  her  sweetly- 
artless  manner,  she  had  affectionately 
enlarged  to  Mr.  Canterburj^  on  the  ne- 
cessity of  some  bracing  sea-air  for  his 
jroungest  and  prettiest  daughter;  she 
had  assured  old  Parson  Annesley  it  would 
be  more  than  good  for  Sarah  ;  she  had 
enlisted  warmly  the  wishes  of  the  two 
young  ladies  themselves  ;  and  the  thing 
was  done. 

They  came  to  Little  Bay ;  and  Mrs. 
Kage  was  not  agreeably  surprised  to  find 
that  Lachy  Kage,  with  her  son,  had  also 
taken  possession  of  a  cottage  in  the  same 
place,  not  three  days  before  ;  Mrs.  Kage, 
making  the  best  of  things,  was  civil,  but 
capricious  and  affected  in  manner,  and 


held  herself  as  much  aloof  as  she  could. 
She  need  not  have  feared  :  Lady  Kage 
was  too  ill  to  seek  for  even  her  society  ; 
but  Thomas,  quite  unconscious  that  Mrs. 
Kage  looked  down  on  his  mother,  or 
wished  to  slight  her,  grew  intimate  with 
them,  and  was  at  their  house  continually. 
Had  he  been  compelled  to  say  which  of 
the  two  ladies  bore  the  higher  position, 
he  might  in  his  simplicity  have  awarded 
it  to  Lady  Kage.  So  how  was  it  likely 
to  -cross  his  mind  that  his  mother  was 
despised? 

Miss  Annesley,  as  you  have  seen,  came 
forth  to  the  garden  to  interrupt  the 
subtly-dangerous  companionship,  and  bid 
them  enter.  On  the  chintz  sofa,  having 
woke  up  from  a  longer  evening  nap  than 
usual,  sat  Mrs.  Kage,  with  her  fan  and 
her  essence-bottles — a  small,  slender  gen- 
tlewoman, with  a  faded  face  and  a  faded 
cap,  and  faded  straw-colored  hair.  The 
cheeks  would  have  been  faded  too,  but  for 
the  delicate  carmine  daily  imparted  to 
them  in  her  toilet-chamber.  She  took 
out  the  stopper  of  her  smelling-salts  as 
they  entered,  and  held  it  to  her  nose, 
speaking  softly. 

"  My  dear  children,  how  could  you 
think  of  being  out  in  the  air  so  late  ? — 
Did  you  keep  them,  Thomas  Kage  ?  " 
with  a  slight  accession  of  acrimony. 

"  I  am  not  sure  but  I  did  ;  and  I  have 
come  in  to  take  the  blame,"  he  lightly 
answered,  with  the  ever-cordial  tone  in 
his  true  voice.  "  But  it  is  a  warm,  genial 
night,  Mrs.  Kage  —  one  to  tempt  even 
you." 

Mrs.  Kage  languidly  opened  her  fan, 
and  did  not  seem  to  hear.  She  had  the 
gift  of  being  deaf  when  occasion  needed 
it. 

Caroline  went  to  the  piano.  Some- 
times he  sang  with  them,  or  stood  by 
listening  to  their  songs.  She  glanced 
around  for  him  now. 

"  No,  Caroline,  I  cannot  stay  to- 
night." 

But  that  Caroline  turned  her  face 
back,  and  kept  it  turned,  Mrs.  Kage 
might  have  read  the  look  of  blank  dis- 
appointment which  rose  at  the  words.  It 
was  getting  late,  he  added,  and  his 
mother  was  ill. 

"  Quite  right,  certainly,"  spoke  Mrs. 
Kage.  "  Don't  you  think  that  your 
mother — ah — gives  way  a  little  ?  "  she 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


29 


continued,  having  made  the  pause  to 
flirt  some  drops  out  of  her  cologne-water 
phial. 

"  Gives  way  !  my  mother  ?  "  he  re- 
joined in  surprise.  If  you  only  knew 
how  earnest  and  energetic  she  is  in  all  her 
duties,  you  would  not  fancy  so.  My 
great  fear  now  is,  that  she  is  exerting 
herself  beyond  her  strength,  sirnpty  be- 
cause she  will  not  give  way  to  illness." 

"  Possibly,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Kage,  with 
gentle  indifference,  as  she  resumed  her 
fan.  "  Good-night  to  you,  if  you  must 
go." 

In  an  opportunity  that  occurred  pres- 
ently, when  she  and  her  daughter  were 
alone,  Mrs.  Kage  took  occasion  to  re- 
mark, in  her  languid  manner,  that  she 
thought  they  had  rather  much  of  Thom- 
as Kage's  company,  and  to  wonder  why 
he  came.  Caroline  laughed  a  forced 
laugh.  The  words  seemed  to  be  spoken 
without  ulterior  motive ;  but  she  was 
quite  conscious  that  her  mother  shot  a 
keen  glance  at  her  from  the  depths  of 
her  cold  light  eyes. 

"  What  if  I  were  to  tell  you,  mamma, 
that  he  comes  for  Leta  ?  " 

For  once  in  her  life,  Mrs.  Kage  was 
startled  into  sincerity.  The  notion  of 
connecting  Thomas  Kage's  visits  with 
Millicent  Canterbury  had  never  present- 
ed itself  to  her  mind. 

"  For  Leta  !  " 

"  One  cannot  help  one's  thoughts, 
mamma.  Of  course,  it  is  all  pure  non- 
sense ;  it  could  not  turn  out  anything 
else,  with  Thomas  Kage's  poor  pros- 
pects ;  hut  I'm  sure  there  is  a  little  bit 
of  fancy  between  them,  especially  on 
Leta's  side." 

Caroline's  pretty  face  wore  a  height- 
ened color,  as  she  toyed  with  one  of  her 
mother's  essence-bottles.  Perfectly  con- 
scious was  she  of  the  deliberate  deceit. 
She  did  not  scruple  to  speak  it,  for  it 
threw  off  suspicion  from  herself. 

"  Dear  me  !  " 

"  And  he  wants  to  take  us  all  for  a  sail 
to-morrow — Sarah  and  Leta  and  me.  I 
promised  for  them  ;  I  knew  you  would 
let  us  go." 

Mrs.  Kage  leaned  back  on  the  sofa, 
her  mind  relieved.  For  Caroline  to  fall 
in  love  where  there  was  no  money,  would 
have  been  intolerable — her  own  fate  en- 
acted over  again  ;  but  Leta  Canterbury 
was  different.     If  she  and  Thomas  Kage 


chose  to  lapse  into  a  liking  for  each 
other,  why,  they  must  get  out  of  it 
again  in  the  best  way  they  could.  Sel- 
fish, selfish  woman  ! 

"Yes,"  she  said  ;  "I  don't  mind  your 
going  for  a  sail,  with  Sarah  to  chaperone 
you,  should  the  sea  be  calm.  I  suppose 
he  understands  the  management  of 
boats." 


CHAPTER  II. 

DOWN    AT    CHILLING. 

A  stately  mansion  bordering  upon 
Wales,  and  resting  on  a  gentle  emin- 
ence, was  the  far-famed  residence  of 
George  Canterbury.  Its  description 
must  be  deferred  to  a  later  chapter. 
Through  the  open  park,  across  the  state- 
ly terraces,  up  the  broad  steps  into  the 
spacious  hall,  we  must  go  now. 

The  view  commanded  from  the  win- 
dows was  beautiful.  Sunshiny  dales, 
sheltering  woods,  silverj'  brooks  of  water, 
that  murmured  .as  they  ran  gently 
through  mossy  glens,  trees  waving  in  the 
breeze,  hills  with  their  light  and  shade 
ever  changing — giving  to  an  imagina- 
tive mind  pictures  of  the  flowery  plains 
of  Arcadia. 

In  one  of  the  various  rooms  that 
opened  on  either  side  the  hall  was  the 
eldest  daughter  of  George  Canterbury. 
The  room  was  of  magnificent  propor- 
tions ;  she  was  as  a  magnificent  queen 
in  it.  Her  gleaming  silk  swept  the 
ground  as  she  stood,  tall  and  upright, 
before  the  window,  her  head  held  a  little 
back,  its  natural  position.  She  was 
rather  a  large  woman,  with  a  comely  face 
of  power,  and  clearly-cut  features  ;  her 
hair  was  of  a  purple  black,  her  eyes 
were  dark  gray.  The  landscape  on 
which  she  looked  was  no  summer  scene 
of  green  glade  and  gladness  ;  far  and 
near  it  was  one  white  spotless  plain  of 
snow.  The  January  sun  shone  brightly, 
the  glad  robins  piped  from  the  snowy 
trees. 

"  I  think  we  shall  have  a  thaw,"  she 
observed  to  her  sister  Jane,  who  sat  at 
the  table  writing. 

Jane  Canterbury  looked  up  from  her 
desk. 

"  I  hope  not.     I  do  so  dislike  a  thaw." 


30 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


"  So  do  I ;  but  it  is  an  evil  that  must 
follow  snow,  and  the  sooner  it's  over  the 
better." 

"  Have  you  any  message  to  Lydia  ?  " 

"  No ;  only  my  love.  I  wrote  to  her 
yesterday." 

Jane  Canterbury  dipped  her  pen  in 
the  ink,  but  did  not  immediately  resume 
her  writing.  She  glanced  again  at  her 
sister. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  think  that  their  not 
coming  down  for  Christmas  has  made  a 
very  disagreeable  impression  on  papa. 
I  mean  Lydia  and  her  husband." 

"Disagreeable!  In  what  way?  ask- 
ed Miss  Canterbury.  "They  could  not 
help  it.     He  was  too  ill  to  come." 

"  Of  course.  Papa  does  not  blame 
them.  He  began  talking  about  it  yes- 
terday evening  when  you  were  at  the 
rectoiy,  saying  that  the  break-up  of  the 
family  Christmas  party  looked  like  a 
foreshadowing  of  the  breaking  up  of  the 
family." 

"  That  was  done,  so  to  say,  when  Ed- 
gar died,  counting  from  the  year  that  we 
lost  mamma,"  observed  Miss  Canter- 
bury, in  the  low  steady  tone  with  which 
she  had  schooled  herself  to  mention  her 
dead  brother's  name. 

"  I  said  so  to  papa  nearly  in  the  same 
words,"  returned  Jane,  "  and  he  began 
to  cry  a  little.     I  think— I  think—" 

"  What  do  you  think,  Jane  ?  "  asked 
Miss  Canterbury  wonderingly,  for  Jane's 
hesitation  had  come  to  a  final  pause. 

"  Well,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
papa  is  not  quite  so  strong  as  he  was," 
was  Jane's  answer,  given  with  a  good 
deal  of  deprecation.  "  In  vigor  of 
mind  ;  I  do  not  mean  in  health." 

Miss  Canterbury  made  no  answer. 
Of  clear  and  vigorous  intellect  herself, 
of  quick  perception  and  sound  common 
sense,  she,  dutiful  and  loving  daughter 
though  she  was,  could  not  be  ignorant 
that  Mr.  Canterbury's  intellect  had  been 
all  his  life  but  common  place.  She  bent 
forward  as  if  something  in  the  white 
landscape  had  attracted  her  attention, 
and  before  the  silence  was  broken  Milli- 
cent  entered  with  her  walking-things  on. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Leta  ?  "  ask- 
ed the  elder  sister  in  a  tone  of  authority. 

"  Oh,  to  five  hundred  places." 

"  In  this  snow  ?  " 

"  As  if  it  would  hurt  me,  Miss  Canter- 
bury !  I  like  walking  in  the  snow  above 
everything." 


"Do  you,  young  lady!  I  hope  you 
have  good  snow-boots  on." 

Leta  held  up  one  foot  with  a  laugh  to 
show  how  thick  the  boots  were.  She 
wore  a  pretty  bonnet  of  bright  violet, 
some  white  blonde  lace  shading  and  set- 
ting off  the  fair,  delicate  cheeks,  and 
sweet  hazel  eyes.  Her  dress  was  violet ; 
her  black-velvet  mantle  was  edged  with 
some  kind  of  rare  fur. 

"And    where    are    the   five    hundred f 
places  ?  "  I 

"  As  if  I  could  enumerate  them  all ! " 
returned  Leta  lightly.  "  The  rectory 
will  be  the  first,  and  the  schools  the 
next,  and  then  Mrs.  Kage's,  and  then — 
I  think  papa  wants  a  message  taken  to 
old  Fry's,"  she  broke  off;  "I  am  going 
to  ask  him.     Good-bye." 

"You  must  be  home  to  luncheon, 
Leta." 

"  Oh  yes,  if  I  can.  If  not,  please  put 
by  a  piece  of  bread-and-butter  for  me." 

Leta  shut  the  door,  and  crossed  the 
hall  to  her  father's  study.  George  Can- 
terbury— a  tall,  thin,  fair  man,  some 
years  turned  sixty  —  sat  reading  near 
the  fire  in  his  spectacles.  His  auburn 
hair  was  thinning  rapidly ;  in  fact,  not 
to  mince  the  matter,  the  top  of  his  head 
was  getting  bald ;  and  the  crows'-feet 
were  deepening  round  the  corners  of  his 
eyes.  All  of  which  troubled  Mr.  Can- 
terbury ;  he  had  been  a  vain  man  all  his 
life,  and  would  be  to  its  end.  The  thin 
face  was  handsome  still,  though  not  dis- 
playing any  great  strength  of  intellect. 
The  nose  and  mouth  were  beautifully 
formed,  but  the  forehead  receded  much. 
His  daughters  Jane  and  Millicent  would 
have  been  very  like  him  but  for  this  last 
defect,  which  their  faces  did  not  possess. 

"  Papa,  don't  you  want  some  message 
taken  to  John  Fry  ?  "  inquired  Leta. 

"  No,  my  dear,  not  now,"  replied  Mr. 
Canterbury,  putting  aside  his  newspa- 
per, and  turning  his  kindly  blue  eyes  on 
her  ;  "  I  have  sent  Neel  to  him." 

"  Oh,  very  well ;  that  will  be  one 
place  less,  then." 

"  You  will  call  at  the  parsonage,  Mil- 
licent, and  see  how  the  poor  old  man  is." 

"  I  am  going  there  first,  papa." 

"  Do  so,  child.  And  if  he  would  like 
some  grapes,  or  some — " 

"  Oh  papa,  Miss  Canterbury,  you 
know,  remembers  all  that,"  was  Leta's 
interruption. 

They  were  in  the  habit,  in  a  playful 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


31 


kind  of  war,  of  calling  the  eldest  sister 
"  Miss  Canterbury." 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so.  I  think  I'll  step 
down  myself  presently  ;  the  snow's  not 
very  bad  between  here  and  the  parson- 
age.    Tell  them  I'm  coming." 

"  Very  well,  papa.     Good-bye." 

Her  other  calls  made,  Leta  Canter- 
bury turned  to  the  residence  of  Mrs. 
Kage,  a  small,  pretty  villa-cottage  with 
low  French  windows.  Caroline  saw  her 
coming,  and  ran  out  regardless  of  the 
snow,  shaking  a  shower  of  it  from  the 
laurels  as  she  brushed  past  them.  Her 
dark -blue  eyes  were  animated;  her 
cheeks  as  bright  as  a  June  rose. 

"  What  good  fairy  sent  you  here, 
Leta  ?  " 

"  The  fairy  was  myself.     Why  ?  " 

"  He  is  come  ! "  whispered  Caroline. 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  Who !  As  if  you  needed  to  ask. 
He  came  down  to  Aberton  on  business 
yesterday,  and  walked  here  this  morn- 
ing." 

With  a  bright  blood-red  flush  rising 
to  her  face,  with  a  sudden  coursing-on 
of  every  vein  and  pulse,  with  a  sweet 
feeling  of  in*ense  bli-s,  as  if  heaven  had 
opened  to  her,  Millicent  Canterbury 
stood  for  a  moment  speechless.  Caroline 
laughed.  The  like  emotion  had  been 
hers  but  an  hour  ago,  at  the  unexpected 
appearance  of  Thomas  Kage,  and  so  she 
could  not  mistake  its  signs  in  another. 

In  later  years,  when  certain  events  in 
the  chances  and  changes  of  life  plunged 
Caroline,  young  still,  into  awful  misery, 
and  brought  her  very  near  the  grave,  a 
remembrance  of  the  deliberate  deceit 
she  had  practised  on  Millicent  Canter- 
bury was  not  the  least  amidst  the  cata- 
logue of  errogji  that  stung  her  conscience. 
From  the  night  at  the  seaside,  when  she 
had  given  the  lying  hint  to  her  mother, 
Caroline  had  set  herself,  after  the  man- 
ner of  girls,  to  tease  Leta  about  Thomas 
Kage.  "  He  loves  3Tou,"  was  her  reit- 
erated whisper ;  and  Millicent,  covered 
with  blushes,  never  dreamt  that  she  was 
being  purposel}'  deceived.  Caroline  was 
playing  the  false  part  still,  now  and  al- 
ways. 

A  matter  of  moment  connected  with 
Mr.  Kage's  profession  had  brought  him 
down  to  Aberton,  a  large  town  about 
three  miles  distance  from  Chilling,  and 
he  took  the   opportunity  to   walk  over. 


On  his  way  to  the  presence  of  Caroline 
the  snowy  road  seemed  but  as  a  soft  car- 
pet of  velvet.  How  his  heart  had  fed 
on  her  image  since  they  parted  in  Octo- 
ber, he  would  not  have  liked  the  world 
to  know.  Mrs.  Kage,  treating  the  visit 
as  one  of  common  courtesy,  paid  solely 
from  the  accident  of  his  being  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  never  supposing  but 
that  her  daughter  looked  upon  it  with 
similar  indifference,  received  him  civilly, 
and  condescended  to  inquire  with  quite 
a  show  of  interest  after  the  health  of 
Lady  Kage. 

She  was  sitting  back  on  her  comforta- 
ble sofa,  drawn  to  the  fire,  when  Milli- 
cent went  in  ;  a  soft  down-cushion  cov- 
ered with  embroidered  silk  was  at  her 
back,  another  beside  her ;  her  scent- 
bottles  lay  on  the  pretty  little  coffee- 
table  at  hand  ;  a  pastile  burnt  in  a  sau- 
cer, making  the  room  smell  like  a  Ro- 
man-Catholic oratory.  Thomas  Kage, 
taking  his  elbow  from  the  mantelpiece, 
advanced  to  shake  hands  with  Millicent. 
She  met  him  with  a  flushed,  conscious, 
downcast  face,  and  stood  in  shyness  and 
silence. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said  in 
his  cordial,  earnest  tone,  for  Millicent 
was  a  great  favorite  of  his.  "I  am  here 
but  for  an  hour." 

"  You  timed  your  visit  well,  Miss 
Millicent,"  spoke  Mrs.  Kage,  languidly 
playing  with  the  chain  of  her  eye-glass. 

"  Did  you  come  on  purpose,  knowing 
Mr.  Kage  would  be  here  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Millicent  vehe- 
mently, half  crying  with  confusion  at 
the  sudden  charge.  "I  did  not  think 
— I  did  not  know  anything  about  Mr. 
Kage.     I  came  for  my  music." 

Thomas  Kage  laughed  at  the  eager- 
ness, but  suspected  not  that  there  could 
be  a  cause  for  it.  Caroline — false  girl  ! 
— telegraphed  a  meaning  look  to  her 
mother,  as  much  as  to  say  she  did  not 
believe  the  denial.  Leta  turned  her  hot 
face  to  the  piano,  and  kept  her  back  to 
them. 

"  Can  you  let  me  have  the  music, 
Caroline  ? "  she  asked  touching  some 
pieces  that  lay  there.  "  Olive  accuses 
me  of  having  lent  it  to  you  to  avoid 
practising  it  myself;  she  knows  I  dis- 
like difficult  pieces." 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  any  very 
great   talent   for  music,  my  dear   Miss 


32 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


Millicent,1'  observed  Mrs.  Kage,  lifting 
her  thin  white  hand  with  its  glittering 
rings.  "It  is  a  great  gift — peculiar,  I 
may  almost  say,  to  the  Gunse  family, 
for  we  all  had  it  largely, — as  your  moth- 
er knew/'  looking  at  Thomas  Kage, 
"  when  she  was  governess  at  Sir 
Charles's.  Caroline  inherits  it  from 
me." 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  not  any  gift  at  all 
for  music,"  spoke  Leta  readily,  turning 
her  ingenuous  and  truthful  face  to  them 
for  a  moment.  "  All  I  know  of  it  has 
had  to  be  drilled  into  me." 

"  As  Miss  Carr  had  to  drill  it,  at  the 
time  I  speak  of,  into  Charlotte  Kage," 
murmured  the  lady. — "  Do  sit  down, 
Millicent  love.  How  is  Mr.  Canter- 
bury ?  " 

"  He  is  quite  well,  thank  you,"  answer- 
ed Millicent.  "  Mr.  Annesley  is  worse. 
Sarah  is  in — so  much  distress." 

The  pause  was  caused  by  the  remem- 
brance of  something  she  had  just  heard 
at  the  rectory  against  Mrs.  Kage.  Sa- 
rah Annesley  had  called  her  false  and 
deceitful :  and  Millicent,  sensitive  and 
ever  considerate  to  others,  felt  as  guilty, 
face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Kage  as  though 
she  had  made  the  charge  herself. 

"  0,  poor  old  duck  !  we  heard  he  was 
worse.  But  you  know  he  is  seventy-five, 
so  his  time  has  come  I  suppose.  Even 
parsons  can't  expect  to  live  for  ever. — 
Can  they,  Thomas  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  Mrs.  Kage ;  and  none 
should  know  that  more  certainly  than 
Mr.  Annesley.  By  all  I  have  heard  of 
him — of  his  good,  humble,  useful  life — 
there  can  be  few  better  prepared  to  wel- 
come death  than  he." 

Mrs.  Kage  threw  her  eyes  across  at 
the  speaker,  a  shrewd  look  of  curiosity 
in  their  depths. 

"  Where  have,  you  heard  of  old 
Annesley  ?  0,  I  forgot  —  from  his 
daughter." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Kage  ;  I  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  hearing  of  Parson  Annesley — it 
is  what  my  good  friend  alwa}rs  calls  him 
— long  before  I  met  his  daughter  last  au- 
tumn'.     I  speak  of  Mrs.  Garston." 

"  Deaf  old  Worry  !  "  faintly  aspirated 
Mrs.  Kage.  "I  give  you  my  word, 
Thomas,  that  the  half-hours'  visits  I 
paid  to  that  antedeluvian  fossil  at  Little 
Bay  upset  my  nerves  for  three  days. 
Caroline   knows  it.      Millicent    Caster- 


bury,  dear  love,  you  know  it.  What  ill 
fate  sent  her  to  the  same  identical  sea- 
side place  that  I  chose,  I  am  unable  to 
imagine." 

"  Mrs.  Garston  came  to  Little  Bay  be- 
cause my  mother  was  there." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mrs.  Kage  frigidly. 
"  How  Sarah  Annesley  could  go  to  sit 
with  her  day  after  day,  and  survive  it, 
was  to  me  a  marvel. — Do  unscrew  this 
difficult  stopper  for  me,  Thomas ;  my 
fingers  are  unequal  to  it." 

Holding  out  the  bottle  to  him  with 
those  same  fingers  of  affectation,  Thomas 
Kage  took  out  the  stopper  and  returned 
it  to  her.  She  fluttered  a  few  drops  of  its 
pungent  essence  on  the  carpet.  And 
thus  talking,  and  some  three  of  them, 
at  least,  feeling  as  if  that  little  parlor 
were  a  haven  of  Eden,  twenty  minutes 
wore  away. 

Millicent,  not  liking  in  her  self-con- 
sciousness, to  staj7  longer,  took  her  leave. 
Mr.  Kage  attended  her  to  the  door,  and 
thence  walked  with  her  along  the  path 
to  open  the  gate. 

"  The  next  time  I  come  down,  I  hope 
to  have  the  honor  of  calling  on  the  Miss 
Canterburys,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  her 
hand.  "  I  feel  ashamed  not  to  do  so 
now,  but  time  will  not  permit  it." 

"  You  are  going  back  to  Aberton 
soon  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  been  to  the  rec- 
tory. I  am  compelled  to  call  there,  short 
though  my  time  is;  for  I  promised  Mrs. 
Garston  to  do  so,  and  take  her  back 
news  of  Mr.  Annesley." 

"  Will  you  give  my  kind  regards  to 
her?"     spoke     Millicent    gentL.        "I 
think  she  is  a  very  worthy  old  lady,  in 
spite  of  her  peculiarities." 
"  Yes,  she  is." 

"  And  I  should  like  to  send  my  love 
to  your  mother,"  added  Millicent,  blush- 
ing a  little. 

"  Thank  you.  Until  my  next  visit, 
then." 

"  Perhaps  3Tou  will  never  make  anoth- 
er !  "  Leta  stayed  to  say,  her  sweet  face 
turned  to  him  rather  wistfully. 

"  Indeed  I  shall,  and  very  shortly  too. 
The  business  that  has  brought  me  down 
to  Aberton  now  must  bring  me  again 
soon,  when  I  will  try  not  to  be  so  tied 
for  time.  Fare  you  well,  dear  Miss  Can- 
terbury ! " 

He  lifted  his  hat  and  Millicent  walk- 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


33 


ed  away,  carrying  the  piece  of  music,  a 
whole  flood-tide  of  sunshine  making 
glad  her  beating  heart. 


CHAPTER   III. 

WITH     LADY     KAGE. 

Apart  from  the  crowd  of  lofty  and 
pretentious  houses  sprung  up  of  late 
years  in  the  region  that  somebody  has 
called  "  Westburnia,"  stand  two  dwel- 
lings smaller  and  prettier,  each  in  the 
midst  of  its  garden,  and  almost  under 
the  very  wing  of  that  aristocratic  place, 
Paradise-square.  These  two  houses  had 
not  kept  pace  with  others  in  grandeur. 
They  had  a  kind  of  plain,  old,  and  staid 
look,  answering  no  doubt  to  their  respec- 
tive occupants,  who  had  been  in  them 
years  before  the  fashionable  squares  and 
terraces  around  were  built  or  thought 
of.  In  the  one  lived  Mrs.  Garston, 
and  in  the  other  Lady  Kage.  They 
were  held  on  long  leases,  and  the  rents 
were  low.  Doubtless  the  landlord  was 
ready  to  eat  his  finger-ends  with  morti- 
fication, at  seeing  the  great  rents  exac- 
ted by  others  for  houses,  not  half  as  good 
as  these  in  point  of  real  comfort  and 
convenience.  Mrs.  Garston  remained  in 
hers  from  habit,  from  past  associations. 
Her  fortune  brought  her  in  nearly  three 
thousand  a-year,  and  the  house  was  en- 
tirely out  of  proportion  with  such  an  in- 
come as  that ;  but  she  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  changing  her  skin  as 
her  dwelling.  She  kept  six  servants  in- 
doors, and  a  large  close  carriage  and  a 
coachman  in  Paradise-mews.  Several 
rooms  had  been  built  out  at  the  back  of 
her  house  at  her  own  expense,  otherwise 
some  of  the  six  servants  might  have 
lacked  dormitories.  It  is  not  with  Mrs. 
Garston,  however,  that  we  have  to  do 
just/ now,  but  with  Lady  Kage. 

Her  income  has  already  been  mention- 
ed,— a  few  hundreds  a-year,  all  told — and 
it  would  die  with  her.  Thomas  Kage 
made  a  little,  after  lr's  chambers  and  other 
expenses  were  paid  ;  and  he  took  it  home 
and  threw  it  into  the  common  fund. 
They  had  kept  two  servants  ;  but  since 
Lady  Kage  grew  worse  another  was 
taken  on;  and  D.-rothy  attended  solely 
to  the  comforts  of  her  mistress. 

Seven  o'clock  London  time,  on  a  Jan- 
2 


uary  evening,  and  two  very  charming 
concomitants  for  London  streets  —  a 
thaw  and  a  fog.  Thomas  Kage,  arriv- 
ing at  home  from  that  brief  visit  of  his 
to  Aberton,  mentioned  in  the  last  chap- 
ter, thought  it  about  one  of  the  most 
disagreeable  nights  he  had  ever  experi- 
enced as  he  sprung  out  of  the  hansom 
with'  his  small  black  travelling  -  bag;. 
Letting  himself  in  with  his  latch-key, 
he  turned  into  the  dining-room,  where 
he  expected  to  find  his  mother.  The 
empty  chair,  however — her  own  chair  in 
the  warmest  corner — struck  upon  him 
with  a  kind  of  foreboding  chill. 

«  "Where's  my  mother  ?  "  he  asked  of 
a  servant-maid  who  came  running  up. 

"  My  lady  is  not  quite  so  well,  sir," 
was  the  answer.  "  She  has  not  been 
down  at  all  to-day.  Dorothy  thinks  it's 
this  nasty  weather  that's  trying  her.  0 
sir,  and  if  you  please,"  added  the  girl,  as 
he  was  making  his  way  to  the  stair-case, 
"  Mrs.  Garston's  footman  has  been  here 
to  ask  you  to  be  kind  enough  to  step  in 
as  soon  as  you  got  back." 

Lady  Kage  was  in  the  small  sitting- 
room  above,  cheerful  with  fire  and  two 
wax  -  candles.  A  gray  chenille  shawl 
lay  on  the  back  of  her  easy  -  chair ;  a 
small  cap  of  white  lace  shaded  her  deli- 
cate face,  which  grew  bright  at  the  en- 
trance of  her  son — her  good,  noble,  lov- 
ing son  —  who  had  never  in  his  whole 
life  brought  to  her  one  moment's  pain. 
He  kissed  his  mother  fondly,  and  then 
sat  down  by  her. 

"  And  now  what  is  this  great  matter, 
that  my  mother  should  be  up  here  this 
evening?  "  he  asked  in  a  light,  almost  a 
joking  tone;  for  he  knew  how  strangely 
impressionable  to  outer  influences  her 
spirits  had  of  late  been. 

"  My  breath  has  been  so  bad  to-day, 
Thomas." 

And  as  she  spoke  he  became  conscious 
that  the  breath  (not  very  free  for  a  long 
while)  was  remarkably  short.  Thomas 
did  not  like  this. 

He  drew  a  chair  to  the  fire,  railed  a 
little  at  the  fog,  thick  enough  to  affect 
anybody's  breath,  and  at  what  he  called 
the  slush,  and  then  passed  to  the  topic 
of  his  late  visit,  and  the  business  that 
had  induced  it,  of  which  Lady  Kage  was 
cognizant. 

"  Will  vou  be  able  to  succeed  in  it, 
Thomas  '!  " 


34 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


"  Yes.  But  I  shall  have  to  go  down 
again,  I  expect,  more  than  once.'" 

"  And  Mrs.  Kage  is  well  ? — And  Car- 
oline ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Kage  is  blooming,  and  greater 
in  essences  and  affectation  than  ever." 

"  Thomas  !  "  spoke  his  mother,  with  a 
reproving  smile. 

"  Well,  it  is  not  a  libel." 

"  You  saw  Caroline  ?  " 

"  I  saw  Millicent  Canterbury  also. 
She  asked  me  to  give  her  love  to  you." 

"  You  ought  to  have  called  on  the 
Canterbury?,  Thomas." 

"  If  I  had  I  should  not  have  been  back 
to-day  ;  and  I  did  not  care  to  leave  you 
alone  for  two  nights,  mother  mine.  I 
saw  Mr.  Canterbury  at  the  parsonage, 
and  said  I  would  call  the  next  time  I 
went  down. 

Dorothy  came  in,  grim  as  usual,  to  tell 
him  his  dinner  was  waiting  downstairs. 
"  Which  it  was  nothing  but  two  mutton- 
chops  and  mashed  potatoes,"  she  added, 
for  they  had  not  been  certain  of  his  get- 
ting home.  Thomas  Kage  ran  down  to 
the  potatoes  and  chops  as  contentedly  as 
he  would  have  done  to  a  rich  repast, — 
he  had  been  brought  up  to  be  thankful, 
— and  then,  mindful  of  Mrs.  Garston's 
message,  went  in  to  the  next  door. 

Mrs.  Garston  was  in  her  drawing- 
room  :  a  tall,  deaf  old  lady,  with  vigor- 
ous gray  eyes,  large  features,  and  an  ir- 
ritable temper;  her  dress,  of  rich  white 
brocade  silk,  with  a  small  running  pat- 
tern on  it  of  bright-colored  flowers,  stood 
out  stiffly,  and  her  head-dress  of  black 
velvet  and  pearls  ;  all  of  a  bygone  fash- 
ion, like  herself.  She  had  heard  from 
her  servants  of  Mr.  Kage's  arrival  at 
home,  and  had  sat  bolt  upright  in  her 
chair  ever  since,  expecting  him,  her  gold.- 
headed  stick,  with  which  she  supported 
.her  steps  in  walking,  resting  as  usual 
against  her.  She  took  it  in  her  hand 
when  he  entered,  and  began  to  tap  the 
carpet ;  by  which  signs  Thomas  knew 
that  she  was  not  in  a  genial  humor. 

"  So !  You  have  come,  have  you  ? 
And  taken  your  time  over  it." 

It  was  rather  by  guess  than  ear  that 
Thomas  Kage  caught  the  sense  of  the 
words.  Mrs.  Garston's  eight}-  years  had 
rendered  her  toothless  ;  and  she  would  no 
more  have  allowed  the  loss  to  be  artificial- 
ly supplied  than  she  would  have  submitted 
to  the  wrongest  thing  invented  by  Satan. 
Putting  aside  any  pain  there  might  be 


to  the  gums  in  fixing  them,  she  looked 
upon  false  teeth  as  one  of  the  world's 
new  and  reprehensible  sins. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  as  he  sat 
down  close  to  her,  his  kindly,  honest  dark 
eyes  looking  pleasantly  into  her  sharp 
ones  of  steel-gray.  In  his  slow,  distinct, 
impressive  tones,  heard  by  her  distinctly, 
he  explained  that  he  had  sat  a  little 
while  with  his  mother,  whom  he  had 
found  worse,  and  stayed  to  eat  his  din- 
ner after  his  long  journey,  before  coming 
in  ;  and  it  disarmed  her  anger. 

"  Is  anything  fresh  ailing  your  moth- 
er?" 

"  Her  breath  is  labored,"  spoke  Thom- 
as in  her  ear,  "  and  she  seems  very  low 
this  evening.  Dorothy  thinks  it  may  be 
the  effect  of  the  weather ;  I  hope  it  is." 

Mrs.  Garston  gave  a  violent  rap  with 
her  stick,  which  slightly  incommoded 
Thomas  Kage,  for  it  struck  his  foot  in- 
stead of  the  floor. 

"  What  do  fogs  come  for,  I  should  like 
to  know  ?  " 

"  I  think  we  should  be  puzzled  to  tell." 

"  They  are  horrible  ;  they  affect  every- 
body's breath  :  you  tell  Lady  Kage  so 
from  me.  When  I  was  out  in  the  car- 
riage to-day  for  my  airing,  driving  round 
and  round  Paradise-Square — for  I'd  not 
let  the  coachman  venture  farther  in  such 
a  mist  —  I  was  choked  with  the  damp 
and  fog.  Clinked,  I  assure  you,  Thomas. 
And  one  with  bad  breath  would  natural- 
ly feel  it  more  than  I  did.  Now,  you  tell 
your  mother  that ;  do  you  hear?" 

"  I'll  be  sure  to  tell  her,"  said  Thom- 
as, who  wTas  used  to  Mrs.  Garston. 

"  Don't  let  her  get  low  through  a 
mischievous  fog.  Lowness  is  bad  for  us 
all,  but  it  must  be  worse  than  a  dose  of 
physic  to  Lady  Kage.  I  should  not  like 
to  have  heart-complaint  myself,  Thomas  ; 
though  I  can't  help  saying  that  what's 
called  heart-complaint  is  generally  noth- 
ing but  what  comes  of  nerves  and  fancy. 
Did  you  see  Parson  Annesley  ?  " 

Thomas  Kage  answered  in  the  affirm- 
ative, and  gave  her  his  opinion  of  the 
clergyman's  state.  The  old  people  had 
been  friends  in  early  life. 

"  And  so  you  went  to  see  tho?e 
Kages  !  "  commented  the  unceremonious 
dame,  when  she  had  gathered  various 
items  of  news  in  answer  to  her  questions. 

'"/shouldn't.  They  are  not  worth  it, 
Thomas." 

"  Not  worth  it,  ma'am  ?  " 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


35 


"No,  not  worth  it!"  she  repeated  ir- 
ascibly. "  Why  do  you  contradict  ?  The 
mother's  a  lump  of  pretension  and  hypoc- 
risy, and  the  daughter's  a  chip  of  the 
old  block.     Now,  then  !  " 

He  only  smiled  in  answer  to  her  fierce 
look. 

"  They  are  not  worthy  to  bear  the 
same  name  as  your  mother;  no,  nor  as 
you,  Thomas,  when  }'ou  behave  yourself. 
I  knew  the  Gunses.  —  What  sort  of  a 
provision  has  Philip  Annesley  made  for 
his  daughter?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  never  heard  any- 
thing about  it." 

Mrs.  Garston  grunted  :  she  very  much 
resented  any  check  to  her  curiosity. 
Thomas  Kage  did  not  mend  the  feeling 
bj'  inquiring  if  she  had  any  news  of 
Barnaby  Dawkes. 

"Now,  don't  you  bring  up  Barnaby 
Dawkes's  name  to  me,"  shrieked  the  old 
lady,  seizing  her  stick  menacingly  ;  "  I'll 
not  stand  it  from  you,  Thomas  Kage. 
He  had  the  impudence  to  send  me  a  let- 
ter to-day,  saying  he  must  quit  the  army 
and  go  through  the  Insolvent  court,  un- 
less I  paid  his  debts.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  for  a  piece  of  brass?" 

"  Very  wrong,  of  course,"  murmured 
Thomas.  "  But  perhaps  if  he  were 
once  set  straight,  he  would  keep  so." 

"  Is  it  anything  to  you,  pray,  that 
you  should  take  his  part  ?  "  she  retort- 
ed. "  Are  you  in  league  with  Barby 
Dawkes  ?  " 

"  Surely  not.  I  scarcely  know  Cap- 
tain Dawkes  ;  I  have  not  seen  him 
more  than  three  times  in  my  life." 

"And  that's  three  times  too  often. 
You  keep  clear  of  him,  Thomas  Kage, 
or  perhaps  he  may  infect  you  with  the 
propensity  of  getting  into  debt.  He's 
a  vain  fop,  that's  what  Barby  Dawkes 
is,  and  lives  in  the  billiard-room  all  his 
spare  time.  I  don't  like  him  ;  and  I 
don't  like  Keziah.  Debts  last  year, 
debts  this  year,  debts  next  year,  and 
then  he  comes  to  me  to  pay  them  for 
him  !     Why  does  he  make  them  ?  " 

She  put  the  question  so  pointedly  to 
Thomas  Kage,  with  her  keen  gaze  fixed 
on  his  face,  that  he  could  only  make 
some  kind  of  answer.  He  did  not  know 
Why  Captain  Dawkes  made  them. 

"Nor  I,"  said  Mrs.  Garston.  "But 
I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Thomas  Kage, 
he  will  make  his  debts  once  too  often. 


There  ;  you  may  put  that  down  in  your 
diary,  if  you  will,  to  remind  you  later 
that  I've  said  it." 

Thomas  Kage  did  not  put  it  in  his 
diary,  scarcely  in  his  memory ;  but  a 
time  was  to  come  when  he  would  re- 
member it  with  a  shudder,  for  the 
prophecy  was  destined  to  be  awfully  ful- 
filled. 

"  What  keeps  Charlotte  away  from 
her  mother  ?  "  resumed  Mrs.  Garston 
in  a  fierce  tone.  "  Lady  Kage  told  me 
yesterday  she  had  not  seen  her  for  a 
week." 

"  Charlotte  cannot  come  abroad,  just 
now  ;  she  is  always  ill,  as  you  know,  be- 
fore her  babies  are  born." 

Mrs.  Garston  gave  a  resentful  knock 
in  the  air  at  some  imaginary  object. 

"  Babies  here,  babies  there,  babies 
eveiywhere  !  How  many  will  this  next 
make  ?  " 

"  Nine  !  " 

"  Nine  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Garston,  lift- 
ing her  hands.  "  Why  do  people  have 
so  many  children  ?  Where's  the  use 
of  it  ?'" 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell,"  said  Thomas, 
with  a  laugh.     "  I  have  none." 

"  And  don't  you  have  any,"  advised 
the  old  lady.  "  Don't  you  get  married, 
my  dear,  for  you  are  better  off  single. 
With  such  a  mother  as  yours  to  come 
home  to,  and  me  next  door  to  talk  to  at 
will,  you've  everything  you  can  reason- 
ably want.  WTives  are  but  a  lottery  at 
best,  for  I'll  be  whipped  if  the  'cutest 
men  living  can  tell  what  they  are  till 
they've  got  'em  for  better  or  worse. 
And  children  may  turn  out  spendthrifts 
like  Barnaby  Dawkes." 

"  Which  would  not  be  desirable," 
thought  Thomas  Kage. 

"  Over  and  over  again  I  warned 
Charlotte  against  that  marriage,"  re- 
sumed Mrs.  Garston.  "  I  told  her  that 
where  the  exchequer  was  low,  children 
generally  arrived  in  shoals.  She  did 
not  heed  me,  and  what's  the  conse- 
quence ?  Don't  you  go  and  make  a 
spectacle  of  yourself,  Thomas.  Barna- 
by Dawkes — Who's  come  with  such  a 
noise  as  that,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

It  was  a  summons  at  the  front  door  ; 
a  knock  and  ring  so  loud  and  startling 
as  to  have  penetrated  even  to  the  deaf 
ears.  The  footman  came  in,  looking  a 
little  scared  as  he  spoke  to  Mr.  Kage. 


86 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


"  One  of  your  servants  is  come  to  say, 
sir,  that  her  ladyship's  taken  worse — if 
you'd  please  to  go  in." 

A  parting  pressure  of  the  hand,  and 
Thomas  Kage  was  gone,  long  before  his 
old  friend  in  her  impatient  flurry  com- 
prehended a  word. 

Lady  Kage  was  lying  insensible,  and 
medical  aid  was  summoned.  It  was 
but  a  prolonged  fainting-fit ;  but  ere 
the  doctor  departed,  Thomas  Kage  had 
learnt  the  fatal  news,  that  the  end,  in 
all  probability,  could  not  be  retarded 
beyond  many  days.  It  nearly  over- 
whelmed him.  He  had  known  for  some 
time  now  that  the  termination  must  be 
fatal,  most  likely  sudden,  but  he  had 
not  expected  it  so  soon.  It  is  the  ordi- 
nary case  of  life's  experience.  So  soon  ! 
so  soon  !  He  sat  by  her  with  his  aching 
heart :  but  for  the  strongest  efforts  of 
self-control,  he  must  have  given  way  to 
his  emotion. 

Lady  Kage  knew  the  truth  nearly  as 
certainly  as  he,  and  did  not  fail  to  de- 
tect his  inward  agitation.  She  seemed 
quite  comfortable  again,  and  sat  in  her 
chair  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
shunning  bed  as  long  as  might  be,  for 
the  feeling  of  suffocation  was  very 
strong  this  evening,  and  always  oppress- 
ed her  worse  when  she  la}7  down. 
Thomas  was  standing  in  silence,  his 
e}res  fixed  on  the  fire,  when  she  put  out 
her  hand  to  him.  He  went  up  and 
clasped  it. 

"  What  has  Dr.  Tyndal  been  saying 
to  you  ?  "  she  asked,  gazing  up  to  his 
face  with  a  wan  smile,  meant  to  be  a 
cheer}T  one. 

The  sudden  question  upset  him.  By 
the  tone,  the  manner,  he  saw  she  knew 
the  worst.  His  chest  heaved,  his  lips 
quivered,  and  he  turned  a  little  from 
her. 

"  Thomas  !  " 

He  flung  both  his  hands  on  his  face 
to  hide  his  pain,  and  a  sharp  faint  cry 
involuntarily  escaped  from  him. 

"  Thomas,  Thomas !  My  darling  son  ! 
Do  not  grieve  as  though  there  were  no 
hope." 

She  motioned  that  he  should  draw 
his  chair  close  and  sit*  down  on  it,  and 
their  hands  were  locked  together.  It 
had  not  been  hope  for  this  life  she  spoke 
of,  but  for  the  next.  The  great  love, 
always  existing  between  them  in  heart, 


had  been  suppressed  in  manner ;  they 
had  not  been  demonstrative  the  one 
with  the  other  :  this  cannot  be  with 
those  of  a  higher  nature,  where  the  feel- 
ings are  sensitive,  true,  deep.  But  on 
this  night,  with  the  great  parting 
brought  suddenly  close  to  hand,  reserve 
was  thrown  aside,  and  they  spoke  "  face 
to  face,"  as  though  the  reticence  that 
pertains  to  earth  had  taken  wings  to  it- 
self and  flown  away.  Then,  if  Thomas 
Kage  had  never  known  it  before,  he 
learnt  haw  excellent  a  son  she  had  ever 
found  him,  how  truly  she  had  appre- 
ciated his  goodness,  his  sacrifices,  his 
never-failing  and  most  considerate  love. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  of  deep  agitation, 
and  Thomas  remembered  that  he  must 
be  calm,  even  to  the  end,  for  his  moth- 
er's sake.  His  face  had  lines  in  it,  his 
eyes  were  red,  but  he  sat  quietly  staring 
into  the  fire,  her  hand  held  quietly  in 
his,  while  his  heart  felt  as  if  it  must 
burst  with  anguish. 

"  I  have  made  my  will,  Thomas,"  she 
said,  knowing  that  practical  considera- 
tions must  be  spoken  of  as  well  as 
others.  "  There's  not  much  to  leave, 
my  dear  ;  still,  I  have  been  able  to  put 
by  a  little  }rearly  since  Charlotte  mar- 
ried, and  you  paid  your  own  expenses. 
It  is  about  six  or  seven  hundred  pounds, 
I  think — it  will  be  that,  I  mean,  when 
everything  is  paid;  and  —  Thomas"' — 
Lad)r  Kage  spoke  hesitatingly  and 
dropped  her  voice — "  I  have  left  it  to 
Charlotte." 

"Quite  right — quite  right,"  he  warm- 
ly answered.  "Charlotte  wants  it;  I 
don't.      I  have  my  profession." 

"  That  was  what  swayed  me.  I 
thought  it  over  a  long  while,  prayerfully, 
trustingly,  and  I  seemed  to  see  that  poor 
Charlotte,  with  her  flock  of  children  and 
her  many  needs,  had  the  most  right  to  it. 
But  0,  my  son,  my  good  son  !  what  can 
I  leave  to  you  ?  " 

A  great  sob  escaped  him,  and  his  eye- 
lashes were  wet  as  he  turned  them  to 
her. 

"  Leave  me  your  blessing,  mother." 

"  You  have  it  always  ;  my  heart  is 
blessing  you  ever}'  hour  of  its  existence. 
And  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  look  down 
from  there"  (glancing  upwards),  "It  will 
bless  you  still.  Be  at  ease,  my  dear  son  : 
a  better  blessing  than  mine  is  vours — 
God's." 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


He  suddenly  knelt  down  by  the  fire 
and  poked  it  violently — anything  to  car- 
ry off  the  emotion  that  was  stirring  him 
so  terribly  within.  And  then  he  throw 
his  arms  across  his  mother's  lap,  and  hid 
his  thee  upon  it. 

"  Do  not  sorrow  as  those  without 
hope,"  she  whispered  ;  "  do  not  mourn  as 
those  who  have  no  comforter.  Where 
will  be  the  profit  of  my  daily  patient 
teaching,  Thomas,  if  you  are  to  give  way 
under  this  blow  ?  " 

"  It  is  so  sudden." 

';  Nay,  you  cannot  have  failed  to  know 
that  death  was  coming." 

"  But  not  so  soon  —  not  so  soon. 
[Mother!     I  don't  know  how  to  bear  it." 

"You  cannot  think,  Thomas,  how 
quickly  my  life  seems  to  have  passed 
since  that  brief  period  of  time  into  which 
all  momentous  events  for  me  were  crowd- 
ed :  my  marriage,  yTour  birth,  and  your 
father's  death.  Looking  back,  it  seems 
to  be  as  yesterday.  So — quickly — will 
your  life  pass ;  and  then  we  shall  be  re- 
united where  there  can  be  no  more  part- 
trig." 

She  could  feel  the  inward  sobbing 
as  he  leaned  against  her.  The  tears 
gathered  in  her  own  eyes,  and  dropped 
on  his  head  as  she  looked  down  at  him. 

"  Heaven  knows  how  I  have  sti-iven 
to  work  on  patiently  and  silently  for  the 
goal,"  she  said.  "  In  the  midst  of  all 
my  short-comings  and  mistakes  and  sins, 
I  have  ever  tried  to  keep  the  end  in  view, 
and  to  bear  on  for  it.  It  has  not  been  in 
vain,"  she  softly  whispered.  "  0  Thom- 
as, I  have  been  so  helped  ! — so  helped  ! 
1  do  not  presume  to  say,  with  St.  Paul, 
that  "  henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  me 
a  crown  of  righteousness  ;  "  but  I  dare  to 
hope  and  say  that  I  shall  live  amidst  the 
redeemed  in  heaven.  And  the  time  of 
"fay  departure  is  at  hand." 

If  ever  there  had  been  a  true,  humble 
Christian  in  the  world,  it  was  Maria 
Ivage.  Thomas  knew  how  sure  all  this 
was  ;  but  the  bitter  pain  of  parting  filled 
his  heart,  and  he  could  not  find  comfort. 
That  would  come  later,  when  all  was 
over,  and  the  anguish  had  in  a  degree 
gone  by ;  but  he  did  not  see  it  now. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  keep  on  the  home 
and  old  Dorothy,  Thomas,"  Lady  Kage 
resumed,  as  he  sat  up  in  his  chair  again  ; 
"  at  least  for  a  year.  She  will  keep 
things  straight  for  you  ;  so  that,  in  that 
respect,  you  will  not  so  much  miss  me." 


Even  in  the  midst  of  his  distress,  the 
thought  crossed  him  that  he  should  be 
little  likely  to  retain  the  home  and  Dor- 
othy, wanting  means  ;  but  he  did  not  say 
this  ;  he  could  not  speak. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  grieve  so." 

"  M}r  grief  is  so  bitter  that  I  could  al- 
most wish  to  go  with  you.  0  mother, 
say  you  forgive  me  for  the  pain  I  have 
caused  you,  wilfully  or  thoughtlessly; 
for  all  moments  of  ingratitude,  for  the 
want  of  love,  that  has  been  so  poor  to 
what  it  ought  to  have  been  ! " 

She  took  his  hands,  and  bent  down  to 
him,  a  tender  light  in  her  earnest  eyes. 

"  I  forgive  you  for  all,  Thomas.  I  say 
it  to  satisfy  you.  But  none  can  know 
better  than  you  how  little  there  is  to  for- 
give; I  can  recall  nothing.  You  have 
been  my  dutiful,  loving,  thoughtful 
son ;  not  to  me  only,  but  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven." 

"  Don't,  mother  !  " 

His  tone  was  one  of  imploring  an- 
guish. In  that  moment,  when  she  to 
whom  he  had  been  so  closely  knit  was 
about  to  be  taken  from  his  sight  for  ever 
in  this  world,  it  seemed  that  he  had  not 
loved  her  and  cherished  her  and  worked 
for  her  half  enough. 

"  God's  ways  and  will  are  not  as  ours, 
Thomas,  or  I  could  have  wished  to  live 
until  I  saw  you  more  prosperous." 

"  Do  not  be  anxious  for  me,"  was  the 
hasty  answer.  "  1  have  no  fear  of  get- 
ting on." 

"  If  I  could  be  anxious  for  you,  I 
should  think  my  own  life's  lessons  had 
been  in  vain.  I  leave  you  with  entire 
trust ;  and  be  assured,  Thomas,  that  you 
will  get  on  just  as  much  and  just  as  lit- 
tle as  God  shall  please." 

He  knew  that. 

"  I  have  never  once  asked  for  riches 
for  you,  Thomas,"  she  said  in  a  deeper 
whisper;  '"I  have  been  content  to  leave 
that  to  Higher  wisdom  than  mine.  It 
is  the  other  kind  of  riches  I  have  be- 
sought for  you — 0,  very  earnestly — those 
that  will  serve  you  when  the  gold  of  this 
world  shall  have  flown  away." 

A  glow  of  sweet  gladness,  not  lost  im- 
mediately in  the  hour's  sorrow,  illumined 
his  heart.  He  had  full  faith  in  the  great 
belief  that  the  child  of  a  praying  mother 
would  never  be  lost. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  words  of  that 
verse  in  Sintram,  Thomas — the  one  you 
used  to  be  so  fond  of?  " 


38 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


He  knew  which  she  meant,  and  nod- 
ded. They  ran  through  his  mind  rap- 
idly as  she  spoke. 

"  My  Lord  and  God,  I  pray, 
Turn  from  his  heart  away 

This  world's  turmoil; 
And  call  him  to  Thy  light. 
Be  it  through  sorrow's  night, 

Through  pivin  or  toil." 

'•It  is  that  that  has  been  rather  my 
chief  prayer  for  you,"  she  breathed. 
'*  Thomas,  should  it  come — pain,  toil, 
sorrow,  whatever  trouble  may  be  deemed 
necessary  for  you — you  will  not  fail; 
you  will  bear  up  bravely,  looking  to  the 
end?" 

"  Yes,"  he  clearly  answered,  "  God 
helping  me." 

"  It  seems  so  little  when  you  have 
passed  through,"  she  began  again,  after 
a  long  pause.  "  The  cares,  griefs,  per- 
plexities, distress,  that  appear  so  terrible 
to  us  at  the  time  as  hardly  to  be  borne, 
seem  as  nothing  looked  back  to  when  life 
is  closing.  0  Thomas,  battle  with  the 
storm-waves  as  you  best  can  ;  they  must 
assail  you  sooner  or  later.  Bear  up  man- 
fully, never  sinking,  looking  aloft  always 
to  the  light  that  never  fails.  The  waves 
that  feel  so  cruel  in  the  breasting  them, 
are  only  sent  to  carry  you  onwards.  No 
cross,  no  crown." 

"'  I  know,"  he  whispered  :  "  j^es." 

"  I  shall  he  in  heaven  waiting  for  you  ; 
waiting  until  your  appointed  labor  shall 
be  done  and  life's  sun  has  set.  Thomas, 
I  had  a  dream  this  afternoon  when  I  drop- 
ped asleep  in  the  twilight,  and  I  thought 
I  was  in  a  vast  space  of  subdued,  beauti- 
ful light,  where  ail  seemed  to  be  rest  and 
happiness.  Crowds  were  moving  about 
in  white  robes  ;  a  great  river  ran  along 
below ;  bright  green  trees  and  lovely- 
colored  flowers  clustering  on  either  side 
it.  It  was  heaven,  Thomas;  it  was 
heaven.  I  saw  myself  —  s<uv  myself 
from  a  distance,  as  it  seemed — in  white 
as  the  rest  were,  like  an  angel.  1  was 
looking  down,  watching  for  some  one 
who  was  to  come  from  very  far,  some  one 
who  was  sure  to  come  ;  for  I  saw  the 
glad  smile  of  welcome  on  my  face. 
Thomas,  I  know  that  was  you." 

It  was  getting  almost  more  than 
Thomas  Kage  could  bear.  He  doubted 
also  whether  it  was  not  for  his  mother, 
though  she  seemed  so  calm,  with  a  glad, 
steady  peace  inward  and  outward. 

"  I  know  that  dream  was  sent  to  coin- 


fort  me,  my  son,  to  reconcile  me  to  the 
parting.  I  am  going  to  heaven.  Just 
so  shall  I  watch  there  in  reality  until 
you  come  to  me.  It  will  not  be  long  ; 
time  passes  so  quickly." 

"My  darling  mother,  say  no  more  to- 
night," he  urged,  putting  his  cheek 
against  hers  ;  "  we  will  talk  again  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  think  I  have  said  nearly  all.  You 
will  step  round  to  Charlotte's.  Tell  her 
that  I  am  a  little  worse,  and  if  she  can 
possibly  come  to  me  in  the  morning,  to 
do  so      Read  first." 

"  Do  you  care  that  I  should  read  to- 
night ?  " 

"  I  shall  care  for  it  to  the  end,  Thom- 
as." 

Since  Lady  Kage's  illness  it  had  been 
his  turn  to  read ;  but  he  verily  believed 
he  should  break  down  to-night.  To  at- 
tempt more  than  a  few  verses  he  dared 
not.  It  was  chance  more  than  anything 
else  that  caused  him  to  begin  where  he 
did. 

"  But  I  would  not  have  you  to  be  ig- 
norant, brethren,  concerning  them  which 
are  asleep,  that  ye  sorrow  not,  even  as 
others  which  have  no  hope. 

"  For  if  we  believe  that  Jesus  died 
and  rose  again,  even  so  them  also  which 
sleep  in  Jesus  will  God  bring  with  him." 

And  so  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
After  that,  he  closed  the  book. 

"  '  Ever  be  with  the  Lord  ' ! "  repeated 
Lady  Kage  in  a  low  tone  ;  and  she  took 
his  hands,  and  looked  into  his  eyes  with 
a  great  gladness  while  she  said  it. 

"  For  ever  and  ever,  please  God  !  " 

But,  nevertheless,  it  was  a  curious 
chance  that  caused  Thomas  Kage  to  fix 
upon  those  particular  verses  that  night. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

KEZIAH      DAWKES. 

In  her  square,  comfortable,  but  rather 
small  dining-room,  with  its  thick  purple 
Turkey  carpet,  and  sideboard  of  glitter- 
ing plate  at  her  back,  sat  Mrs.  Garston 
in  her  arm-chair,  bolt  upright.  She 
wore  the  stiffest  of  black  silks,  and  a 
head-gear  of  quilled  white  net  and  love- 
ribbon,  being  in  mourning  for  her  many- 
years'  friend  and  neighbor,  Lady  Kage. 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


39 


By  the  position  she  sat  in,  rigidly  per- 
pendicular, those  accustomed  to  her 
moods  might  have  seen  that  something 
had  put  her  out  of  humor.  Though, 
indeed,  so  far  as  speech  went,  it  was  not 
very  often  she  could  have  been  said  to 
be  in  it. 

Opposite  to  her,  on  the  other  side  the 
hearthrug,  was  a  plain  young  woman  in 
fashionable  attire.  She  had  a  gray, 
cold  face,  dusky  rather  than  clear,  and 
wide-open  green  eyes,  with  brown  spots 
in  them.  It  was  Miss  Dawkes.  The 
grandmother  of  Miss  Dawkes  and  Mrs. 
Garston's  husband  had  been  brother 
and  sister  ;  so  that  the  old  lady  stood  to 
the  younger  in  the  affinity  of  great- 
aunt.  And  when  aunts  (or  uncles 
either)  possess  a  large  fortune,  with 
freedom  to  will  it  away  at  pleasure, 
their  relatives  to  the  nine-and-ninetieth 
degree  do  not  fail  to  gather  about  them/ 
like  a  flock  of  hungry  ravens  waiting 
for  food. 

To  give  Miss  Dawkes  her  due,  it 
must  be  confessed  that  not  from  any  ex- 
pectation of  benefiting  herself  had  she 
come  forth  to  invade  Mrs.  Garston  that 
winter  day,  genial  in  temperature  as 
one  of  spring.  Mrs.  Garston  did  not 
like  to  be  invaded  by  Miss  Dawkes. 
And  Miss  Dawkes  knew  it;  for  the  an- 
cient lady  contrived  to  let  her  likes  and 
dislikes  be  known  without  the  smallest 
scruple.  She  had  come  to  plead  the 
cause  of  her  brother,  Captain  Dawkes ; 
to  endeavor  to  conciliate  Mrs.  Garston's 
anger  against  him,  and,  if  possible,  get 
her  to  pay  his  debts. 

To  possess  a  kinsman  from  whom  we 
have  '  expectations '  is  not  always  a 
good  thing.  No,  not  even  when  the 
money  cannot  fail  to  become  ours  in  the 
due  course  of  events.  The  fact  some- 
times works  badly.  It  had  in  the  case 
of  Captain  Dawkes.  But  for  looking 
to  Mrs.  Garston's  wealth,  assuming  that 
it  must,  or  at  least  a  large  portion  of  it, 
inevitably  descend  to  him,  he  might 
never  have  grown  into  the  fast  spend- 
thrift that  he  was.  The  clear-sighted 
old  lad}7  saw  this ;  and  perhaps  that 
caused  her  to  be  more  lenient  to  his 
faults  than  she  would  otherwise  have 
been.  There  was  little  that  she  did  not 
see ;  her  vigorous  intellect  went  deep 
into  things  passing  around  her,  and 
grasped  their  points  unerringly. 


"  I  wonder  you  have  the  face  to  come 
to  me,  Keziah  !  When  I  was  your  age, 
fifty  years  ago,  I'd  have  hid  myself  in 
a  bag,  head  downwards,  first.  You 
want  a  year  of  thirty  yet,  you  know. 
Manners  are  changed  nowadays.  Chil- 
dren are  3'oung  women,  and  young 
women  are  bolder  than  old  ones." 

Keziah  Dawkes  murmured  some  dep- 
recating reply  in  the  lowest  of  tones. 
Mrs.  Garston  saw  that  words  came 
from  her  lips,  but  she  could  not  by  any 
possibility  have  heard  their  purport. 
And  Keziah  intended  this  :  nothing,  as 
she  knew,  so  aggravated  the  old  lady  as 
opposing  answers.  It  was  rare  indeed 
that  Miss  Dawkes  did  anything  without 
a  purpose ;  wary,  cold,  cautious,  she 
weighed  life's  chances  deliberately. 

"  If  he  has  thrust  one  letter  upon 
me,  he  has  thrust  half-a-dozen.  The 
first  came  three  weeks  ago.  I  didn't 
answer  it.  I  didn't  answer  any  of  'em, 
and  so  he  keeps  on  writing.  What  do 
you  think  of  that  for  impudence  ?  " 

"  Dear  Aunt  Garston,  it  is  tlu  fact 
of  your  not  answering  that  has  caused 
him  to  write  again  and  again." 

Had  any  sensitive  stranger  been 
present,  he  might  have  started  at  Miss 
Dawkes's  voice.  It  sounded  like  a 
gruff  man's,  and  was  very  harsh. 
These  voices  are  not  pleasant  to  the 
ear  :  we  are  apt  to  think  that  they 
carry  their  index  with  them.  A  sweet 
voice  has  been  called  an  excellent  thing 
in  woman  :  it  is  so  in  more  senses  of 
the  word  than  the  one  generally  under- 
stood, whether  possessed  by  woman  or 
by  man. 

Mrs.  Garston  seized  her  stick,  and 
gave  a  thump  on  the  floor  that  might 
have  dented -in  the  board  but  for  the 
intervening  carpet. 

"  How  many  times  have  I  paid  Bar- 
by's  debts  ?     Answer  me  that." 

But  Miss  Dawkes  kept  a  wise  silence. 

"Twice  over  I  have  settled  his  whole 
catalogue  of  liabilities,  and  set  him 
straight  with  the  world  ;  fifteen  times 
at  the  least  I  have  paid  stray  ones  for 
him.  What  is  the  use  of  it,  Ke- 
ziah ?  " 

It  may  be,  that  to  this  Miss  Dawkes 
had  no  satisfactory  answer  to  make. 
A  faint  red,  dark  and  dusky,  tinged  her 
cheeks. 

"  The  oftener  I  pay,  the  oftener  I  may 


40 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


pay;  and  where,  I  ask,  is  it  to  end? 
It  is  doing  him  no  good,  Keziah.  You 
see  that  for  yourself,  you  know,  and  yet 
you  come  pestering  me.  If  he  were 
put  straight  to-morrow,  the  next  day  he 
would  begin  to  pile  up  debts  again. 
The  best  thing  for  Barby,  the  kindest 
thing,  will  be  to  do  no  more  for  him. 
If  once  I  say  I  won't,  I  wont !  Mark 
you  that." 

"  But  you  will  not  say  it,  dear  Aunt 
Garston  ;  you  will  not  in  justice  say 
it!"  And  Miss  Dawkes  in  her  eager- 
ness rose  and  crossed  the  hearthrug,  her 
petitioning  hands  held  out. 

"  Keep  your  seat,  if  you  please,  Ke- 
ziah." 

"I  —  I  thought  perhaps  you  would 
hear  me  better  if  I  sat  nearer  to  you, 
Aunt  Garston." 

"  I  hear  you  quite  well  enough.  You 
want  me  to  pay  Barby's  debts  ;  there's 
lio  fear  I  shouldn't  hear  that.  And  1 
say,  Keziah  Dawkes,  you  are  bold  to  ask 
it.  What  do  you  mean  by  "justice"? 
I  heard  that,  you  see." 

"He  has  been  taught  to  consider  him- 
self your  heir,  Aunt  Garston." 
«  My  bear  !  " 
"  Heir.     I  said  heir." 
"  Has  he  ?     Who  taught  him  ?  " 
"  Everybody.     My  father  and  mother, 
while  they  lived." 

"  A  man  called  yesterday,  Keziah 
Dawkes,  saying  he  wished  to  see  me  on 
business,  and  was  shown  in — here,  to  this* 
very  dining-room.  He  asked  for  a  five- 
guinea  subscription  to  some  improve- 
ments they  want  to  set  on  foot  in  the 
garden  of  Paradise-square.  When  I  told 
him  I'd  not  give  five  shillings,  let  alone 
five  guineas,  that  the  Paradise-garden 
improvements  wer3  nothing  to  me,  he  be- 
gan to  resent  it,  saying  the  committee  had 
counted  upon  my  help  because  I  was  rich, 
and  they  had  put  my  name  down  for  the 
amount.  Do  you  consider  I  was  respon- 
sible for  that,  Keziah  ?  " 

"  Acquainted    with    your  well-known 
benevolence,  the)' — " 

"  I  ask  you  if  you  think  I  was  respon- 
sible for  what  the  committee  chose  to  do 
without  my  knowledge  ?  "  shrieked  Mrs. 
Garston,  rapping  violently. 
"  No.  Certainly  not." 
"  Very  well.  It  is  an  example  in  point. 
I  was  not  responsible  for  what  your  folks 
did  when  they  taught  Barnaby  Dawkes 
to  think  himself  my  heir." 


"  My  father,  had  he  lived,  would  have 
been  }rour  heir." 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Garston,  bend- 
ing her  deaf  ear. 

"  I  spoke  of  papa,  Aunt  Garston.  He 
was  to  have  been  your  heir,  had  he  sur- 
vived you." 

"  That's  as  it  might  have  been.  He 
would  have  come  in  for  a  share.  But 
you  may  remember  one  fact  Keziah — your 
father  would  not  have  made  ducks  and 
drakes  of  it." 

Keziah  knew  that.  Her  father's  tem- 
perament had  been  cold,  cautious,  self- 
denying,  as  was  her  own. 

"  Your  father's  mother  was  my  hus- 
band's sister :  but  the  money  I  enjoy 
comes  from  my  side,  not  his;  it  is  my 
own.  Therefore,  your  family  have  no 
right  to  it,  Keziah.  We  were  friendly 
with  your  father,  and  I  should  not  have 
forgotten  him  substantially  in  my  will. 
But  to  say  that  Barby  has  any  claim  to 
consider  himself  my  heir,  is  a  fallacy. 
Do  you  hear  ? — a  fallac}*." 

"If  Barnaby  cannot  be  helped,  he  must 
go  through  the  Insolvent  Court,"  spoke 
Miss  Dawkes. 

"  And  a  good  thing  for  him.  'Twould 
take  down  his  consequence  a  notch  or 
two." 

"  But  think  of  the  disgrace  to  the 
name,  Aunt  Garston  :" 

"It  wouldn't  be  my  name,"  returned 
the  shrewd  old  lady.  "His  own  and 
yours  ;  but  not  mine." 

Miss  Dawkes  began  to  think  that  she 
should  be  worsted  in  the  argument. 
Mrs.  Garston,  searching  her  with  her 
keen  steel  eyes,  saw  it. 

"There  is  no  earthly  thing  you  care 
for  in  this  mortal  world,  Keziah,  except 
that  brother  of  yours ;  apart  from  him, 
you  hold  no  interest  in  it.  There's  only 
three  years'  difference  in  your  ages,  for 
he'll  be  six-and-twent}'  next  month  ; 
but  j'ou  seem  to  regard  him  with  the 
indulgent  love  of  a  mother  rather  than  of 
a  sister.  Does  it  do  him  good  ?  " 
"  It  does  him  no  harm." 
"  I  say  it  does  do  him  harm.  You 
don't  see  his  faults  ;  and  that  encourages 
him  in  his  reckless  folly.  W'hether 
you  can't  see  them,  or  whether  you  wink 
at  them,  I  don't  pretend  to  judge;  the 
effect  is  the  same  ;  most  likely  it's  some- 
thing of  both.  He  goes  on  spending, 
and  you  go  on  winking." 

"  His  means  are  so  very  shallow,  Aunt 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


41 


Garston  ;    the  merest  trifle,  except   his 


pay- 


You 


"  I  know  his  brains  are  shallow, 
need  not  tell  me  ?  " 

''His  means,  I  said:  his  income.  How 
can  he  keep  straight  upon  it." 

"  How  does  Thomas  Kage,  at  the  next 
door,  keep  straight  upon  a  tithe  of  it  ?  " 
demanded  Mrs.  Garston,  growing  fierce. 

"  Why,  because  he  knows  that  he  must. 
Don't  attempt  to  play  the  sophist  with 
me,  Keziah  Dawkes  ;  it  will  not  answer. 
If  Barnab}'  had  not  me  and  my  parse  to 
turn  to,  he'd  live  within  his  income." 

Miss  Dawkes,  in  her  private  opinion, 
thought  that  was  likely.  At  the  same 
time,  she  deemed  it  most  unreasonable 
and  unjust  for  Barnaby  to  be  expected 
to  live  within  it,  considering  that  Mrs. 
Garston  and  her  purse  were  there.  The 
old  lady  held  up  the  fore-finger  of  her 
right  hand,  glittering  with  diamonds  of 
the  first  water. 

"  Listen  to  me  Keziah.  I  have  no  wish 
to  see  Barnaby  go  to  the  dogs.  He  is  a 
kinsman,. and  I'd  rather  he  turned  out 
respectably.  The  tack  he  is  on  is  the 
wrong  tack  ;  and  neither  you  nor  I  can 
6ee  where  it  will  lead  him  to.  Let  him 
change  it ;  he  is  young  enough  to  do  so 
yet.  But  if  it  is  persevered  in  till  thirty's 
turned,  the  chances  are  that  his  spend- 
thrift habits  will  so  have  mastered  him 
tli at  he  must  indulge  them  at  any  cost. 
Tell  him  this;  impress  it  upon  his  mind  : 
hit  him  get  out  of  them  while  he  may. 
Heaven  alone  knows  what  the  cost  might 
be." 

Could  there  have  been  a  prevision  in 
Mrs.  Garston's  mind  as  she  said  this  ? 
It  really  seemed  (as  things  were  to  turn 
out  in  the  future)  that  it  was  so  ;  that  she 
saw,  as  in  a  mirror,  the  chain  of  events 
to  come. 

Miss  Dawkes  saw  something  quite  dif- 
ferent, which  she  looked  upon  as  prophet- 
ic :  that  by  the  time  Barnaby  was  thirty 
years  of  age  the  old  lady  before  her  would 
have  ceased  to  count  years,  and  he  be  in 
the  full  enjoyment  of  her  large  fortune. 
In  spite  of  these  restive  interludes  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Garston,  neither  she  nor  her 
brother  entertained  a  shadow  of  doubt 
that  the  money  would  come  to  him.  The 
only  douht  attaching  to  the -matter  was, 
how  he  should  carry  on  until  then. 

"  For  this  one  time,  dear  Aunt  Gars- 
ton !     You  will  help  him  this  one  time  ? 


He  is  almost  afraid  to  be  in  the  streets, 
lest  he  should  get  arrested." 

"  Dissected  !  Who  is  going  to  dissect 
him?" 

"  Arrested.  Arrested,  and  put  in 
prison." 

"Prison,  eh?  The  safest  place  for 
him.  A  month  or  two  of  it  might  bring 
him  to  his  senses." 

"And  ruin  him  with  his  regiment. 
For  this  once,  dear  aunt,  in  mercy  !  " 

"  I  will  not  listen  to  any  more,  Keziah. 
What  you  say  can  make  no  difference  one 
way  or  the  other,  and  you  had  better  not 
put  me  out  of  humor.  If  I  pa}'  his  debts, 
I  pay  them  ;  if  I  don't,  I  don't ;  and 
there's  an  end  of  it.  You  can  stay  the 
day  with  me  if  you  like,  and  go  upstairs 
and  take  you  bonnet  off." 

Miss  Dawkes,  knowing  the  old  lady's 
moods,  looked  upon  this  speech  altogeth- 
er as  a  kind  of  concession,  and  was 
too  wise  to  mar  it.  She  slowty  untied 
the  strings  of  her  bonnet,  and  rose. 

"  I  saw  Mrs.  Annesley  at  the  window 
as  I  came  by,  aunt,  and  went  in  for  a 
minute.  She  says  it  is  feared  that  Mr. 
Dunn  is  dying." 

"Which  of  them?" 

"  The  member,  Herbert." 

Mrs.  Garston  bent  her  ear. 

"  Richard  Dunn  was  here  three 
nights  ago,  with  a  shocking  bad  cold.  I 
hope  it's  not  him." 

"  It  is  Herbert,  aunt  —  the  one  who 
married  Miss  Lydia  Canterbury." 

"  And  a  fine  tossed-off,  bold-speaking 
thing  she  is  !  "  pronounced  Mrs.  Gar- 
ston, rapping  violently.  "  Herbert 
Dunn  brought  her  here  to  call  after  they 
were  married;  and,  before  she  had  well 
got  out  of  the  house  again,  she  called 
me  a  scarecrow.  A  deaf  old  scarecrow  ! 
I  heard  of  it;  and  I  told  Dickey  of  it, 
that  he  might  let  his  brother  know.  I 
am  sorry  for  Herbert,  but  I've  not  en- 
couraged his  wife  here.  What's  the 
matter  with  him?" 

"  He  has  been  ill  since  before  Christ- 
mas, Mrs.  Annesley  says — seriously  so. 
But  danger  was  not  thought  of." 

"And  who  says  there's  danger 
now  ?  " 

"  There's  great  danger,  aunt.  He  was 
taken  worse  in  the  night,  and  Dr.  Tyn- 
dal  was  called  up.  The  doctor  has  de- 
sired that  his  relatives  may  be  summon- 
ed ;  he  thinks  he  is  dying." 


42 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


"Dying,  dying!"  angrily  repeated 
Mrs.  Garston,  as  if  the  word  offended 
Iter.  "  One  dying  on  this  side,  another 
born  on  that !  I  wonder  what  the 
world's  coming  to  !  Charlotte  Lowther's 
baby  arrived  this  morning  ;  and  that 
makes  her  ninth." 

"  Charlotte  Lowther  ?  "  repeated  Miss 
Dawkes,  not  remembering  the  name  ; 
'•  who  is  Charlotte  Lowther,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Who  is  Charlotte  Lowther  ?  Why, 
Thomas  Kage's  sister :  poor  Lady 
Kage's  step-daughter,  that  she  brought 
up  like  her  own,  and  sacrificed  her- 
self to.  You  never  know  anybody,  Ke- 
ziah.    Ring  the  bell." 

"  We  have  not  had  any  acquaintance 
with  the  Kages,  you  know,  aunt." 

"  It  was  your  loss,  not  theirs.  Barby 
might  take  a  lesson  to  his  profit  from 
Thomas  Kage.  As  to  Charlotte,  she 
would  marry  Bob  Lowther,  and  she  has 
got  her  troubles  through  it.  The  man 
is  a  good  husband,  I  believe ;  but  I 
question  if  he  makes  more  than  six  or 
seven  hundred  a-year,  and  everybody 
knows  how  far  that  goes  in  London." 

"  I  remember  now.  He  is  a  civil  en- 
gineer." 

"  He  is  as  civil  as  you  at  an}'  rate," 
retorted  Mrs.  Garston.  "Robert  Low- 
ther's a  favorite  of  mine." 

"  I  did  not  say  he  was  uncivil,  aunt." 

"  0,  didn't  3'ou,  though  !  I  know 
your  sneering  ways,  Keziah.  There's 
nobody  in  the  world  good  enough  to  tie 
Barby's  shoe.  You'd  like  to  tell  it  me 
to  my  face.     Ring  that  bell  again." 

The  entrance  of  the  servant  prevent- 
ed the  necessity.  Mrs.  Garston  wanted 
her  carriage  round  without  delay.  The 
man  felt  a  little  surprised  at  receiving 
the  order,  for  it  was  earlier  than  she  us- 
ually went  out,  but  retired  to  transmit 
it. 

"  I  am  going  round  to  Paradise- 
square,"  she  explained  to  her  grand- 
niece.  "Herbert  Dunn's  wife  is  not  a 
courteous  woman,  but  that's  no  reason 
why  I  should  not  inquire  after  him.  I 
shall  come  back  to  luncheon  ;  and  if  you 
like  to  take  an  airing  with  me  after- 
wards, Keziah,  you  can." 

The  carriage  (a  veiy  handsome  equi- 
page, with  a  pair  of  tine  white  horses) 
came  to  the  gate  ;  and  Mrs.  Garston, 
in  her  black  bonnet  and  black-silk  cloak, 
stepped  into  it;  and  was  driven  away. 


Wrarm  sunshine  lay  on  the  pave- 
ments ;  London,  for  once,  looked  bright ; 
some  little  sparrows  were  gaily  twitter- 
ing beneath  the  roofs,  in  the  delu.sive 
belief  that  the  biting  frosts  of  winter 
had  flown  away,  never  to  come  back 
again. 

Keziah  unceremoniously  drew  Mrs.  Gar- 
ston's  arm-chair  in  front  of  the  fire,  and 
put  her  feet  on  the  fender.  That  things 
would  go  on  all  right  she  entertained  no 
doubt  ;  really  to  fear  so  great  a  catastro- 
phe as  that  they  would  iiot,  never  seri- 
ously entered  her  thoughts  ;  only,  Barby 
would  have  to  be  cautious  how  he  played 
his  cards.  In  the  main,  Keziah  wished  her 
brother  would  be  careful  in  many  more 
things  than  he  was  at  present  given  to 
be. 

"  The  old  woman  is  right,  after  all," 
soliloquized  she.  "  Barby  only  gets  his 
debts  settled  that  he  ma}'  be  at  liberty 
to  contract  more.  If  he  had  not  her  for- 
tune in  prospective,  it  might  be  a  bad 
look-out,  unless  he  ceased  spending;  but 
he  has  it ;  she  could  not  for  shame  leave 
it  away  from  him,  neither  would  she. 
He  is  the  on!}'  male  representative  of 
the  family  living,  and " 

"Captain  Dawkes,  ma'am." 

"  The  only  male  representative  of  the 
family  came  forward  at  the  servant's  an- 
nouncement. To  be  correct,  however,  it 
should  be  stated  that  it  was  the  Dawkes 
family  alluded  to,  not  the  Garston. 

Captain  Dawkes  was  a  handsome  man 
— ver}'  handsome  in  his  regimentals  ; 
not  that  he  wore  them  to-day.  His  fig- 
ure was  fine,  his  features  were  good, 
with  quite  a  carmine  flush  on  the.cheeks 
that  his  black  and  shining  whiskers  bor- 
dered. On  his  horse  he  looked  more 
than  well  ;  seen  close,  as  Keziah  saw 
him  now,  he  was  less  so  ;  for  the  very 
dark  eyes  were  too  near  each  other,  and 
the  expression  of  the  face  was  not  open 
— defects  which  half  the  world  would 
never  detect ;  and  Keziah  made  one 
amongst  them.  Blinded  by  partiality, 
she  verily  believed  that,  had  he  taken 
his  place  amid  the  gods  and  goddesses  on 
Mt.  Olympus,  the  rest  would  have  knelt 
and  done  homage  to  his  beauty. 

"  Barby,  is  it  you  ?  Why  did  you 
come  ?  " 

"  To  see  the  grand  aunt.  Is  the  an- 
cient party  visible  ?  " 

"  She  will  think  it  a  conspiracy,  Bar- 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S     WILL. 


43 


by.  I  here  first,  and  you  next ;  both  of 
us  in  one  day.  Why  did  you  not  tell 
me  you  were  coming  here  ?  " 

"  I  may  as  well  say,  '  Why  did  you 
not  tell  me  you  were  ?'  "  returned  Cap- 
tain Dawkes  ;  "  and  with  more  reason, 
Keziah ;  for  you  generally  inform  me 
of  your  probable  movements  for  the  day, 
and  I  don't  often  know  mine." 

Keziah  was  silent.  She  had  intended 
this  visit  of  persua-uon  'to  be  kept  secret 
from  Barnaby.  For  his  sake  she  would 
have  gone  to  the  end  of  the  world  bare- 
foot, and  thought  it  no  sacrifice.  All 
she  could  do  now  was  to  tell  him  of  the 
unpropitious  mood  the  ancient  lady  was 
betra}'ing,  and  leave  it  to  his  own  judg- 
ment whether  he  would  remain  to  see 
her  or  not. 

"  The  fact  is,  Keziah,  things  have 
come  to  a  tolerable  crisis,"  observed 
Captain  Dawkes,  after  listening.  "  The 
sharks  are  after  me.  If  it  were  not  for 
that  confounded  mess  that  might  come 
of  it,  I'd  let  myself  fall  into  their  clutch- 
es, and  get  locked-up  for  a  day  and  a 
night.  That  would  bring  her  to  her 
senses." 

"  I  doubt  if  it  srould,  in  the  sense  you 
mean.  She  has  been  saying  the  best 
place  for  you  would  be  a  prison  ;  that  it 
would  uring  you  to  your  senses.  What 
are  you  looking  at,  Barby  ?  " 

Securely  sheltered  by  the  window- 
curtain  from  outside  observation,  Cap- 
tain Dawkes  had  been  peering  up  the 
road  and  down  the  road  to  satisfy  him- 
self that  it  was  clear. 

Keziah  a  little  changed  color. 

"  Surely  you  do  not  fear  that  you 
have  been  followed  here  !  " 

"Not  much.  It  is  all  right,  I  see. 
Been  saying  a  prison  is  the  best  place 
for  me,  has  she  ?  Considerate  old  octo- 
p-enarian  !  But  that's  only  her  temper, 
Keziah.  When  women  get  to  her  age, 
they  say  anything.  It  is  so  unreason- 
able !  " 

"  What  is  ?  " 

'•To  live  so  long.  In  the  ordinary 
course  of  events  I  ought  to  have  come 
into  my  inheritance  ten  years  ago." 

Keziah  did  not  say  that  Mrs.  Garston 
had  just  hinted  that  the  inheritance 
might  be  none  of  his,  that  he  had  no 
legal  right  or  claim  to  it.  She  spared 
him  when  she  could :  telling  him,  of 
disagreeable  news,  only  what  could  not 
be  avoided. 


"  How  long  do  you  expect  her  to  be 
away,  Keziah  ?  If  I  thought  it  might 
be  better  not  to  see  her,  why  I'd  decamp, 
and  come  in  to-morrow.  She — Halloa  ! 
that's  Kage,  I  think.  I  want  to  ask 
him  a  question." 

Seizing  his  hat,  Captain  Dawkes  ran 
along  the  garden — for  these  two  houses 
were  built  back,  not  like  the  modern 
ones.  Thomas  Kage  was  passing  on  to 
his  own,  when  he  found  himself  called, 
and  turned  to  see  Barnaby  Dawkes. 
The  Captain  met  him  with  outstretched 
hand. 

"  I  was  awfully  sorry,  old  fellow,  to 
hear  of  your  loss,"  he  began,  the  deep- 
mourning  attire  reminding  him  of  it. 
"  Forgive  my  laying  hold  of  you  in 
this  manner.  You  know  Briscoe,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"  Sam  Briscoe  ?     Yes." 

"  Can  you  give  me  his  address  ?  " 

Mr.  Kage  hesitated,  and  then  told 
the  truth  in  his  straightforward  man- 
ner. 

"  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  give  it.  Bris- 
coe is  in  some  difficultly,  you  know." 

"  He's  not  in  half  as  much  difficult}' 
as  I  am.     Come,  let's  have  it,  Kage." 

"  I  cannot,  Captain  Dawkes.  It  was 
by  the  merest  accident  that  I  became 
acquainted  with  his  present  address  ;  he 
said  he  must  trust  to  my  good,-fee>Jing 
and  honor  not  to  disclose  it  to  any  man 
living,  though  it  were  his  own  brother." 

"  Does  Briscoe  owe  you  money?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  he  does  me.  It's  not  much, 
but  upon  my  word  I  am  so  hard  up  that 
the  smallest  sums  are  of  moment.  If 
Briscoe  can  pay  me,  I  know  he  will.  I 
don't  want  to  bother  him." 

"  Give  me  a  letter  for  him.  I'll  for- 
ward it  at  once." 

"  Very  well ;  I'll  write  it  now  and 
send  it  in  to  you.  But  for  this  cross- 
grained  old  grand-aunt  of  mine  turning 
crusty,  I  should  not  need  to  trouble 
anybody.  It  may  be  a  month  yet  before 
she  comes  to  ;  and  that  will  about  land 
me  in  the  Thames." 

"  In  the  Thames  !  " 

"  If  I  don't  get  money  from  some- 
where, I  must  either  hang  or  drown 
myself.     Good-day." 

Captain  Dawkes  turned  in  with  a 
look  as  gloom}'  as  his  tone,  and  Thomas 
Kage  passed  on  to  his  home. 

Never  did  he  now  put  the  latch-key 


44 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


in  the  lock  and  enter,  "but  a  feeling  of 
wear}'  desolation  shot  across  his  heart, 
as  if  the  world  and  the  house  were  alike 
steeped  in  gloom  that  admitted  of  no 
enlightenment.  However  he  might 
temporarily  forget  his  loss  abroad,  amid 
the  absorbing  cares  of  the  day's  business, 
the  moment  he  approached  his  home  it 
returned  to  his  mind  with  redoubled 
force. 

It  was  a  curious  coincidence  that  he 
should  have  chosen  those  particular 
words  in  the  Bible  to  read  to  his  moth- 
er that  past  night — as  already  told  of — 
for  they  were  the  last  he  ever  read  to 
her.  Lady  Kage  dlt>d  that  night. 
When  Thomas  came  baeK  from  carrying 
the  news  of  her  increased  illness  to  Mrs. 
Lowther,  Lady  Kage  was  in  bed,  and 
seemed  quite  comfortable.  She  smiled 
when  he  bent  over  her,  saying  she  feJ^ 
so  easy  and  happy,  just  as  if  she  should 
be  quite  well  in  the  morning.  Thomas 
hissed  her,  and  said  he  hoped  she  would 
be. 

He  sat  np  in  her  room.  He  was  not 
easy,  and  could  not  leave  her.  Doroth}" 
resented  it :  she  had  always  sat  up  with 
her  lad}r  before;  things  had  come  to  a 
pretty  pass  if  Mr.  Thomas  must  take 
her  duties  on  himself.  Thomas  quietly 
replied  that  Doroth}'  might  sit  up  too, 
and  keep  him  company  if  she  pleased. 
Dorothy  did  not  please,  and  betook  her- 
self to  an  adjoining  room  in  dudgeon. 

Lady  Kage  dropped  into  a  quiet 
sleep.  He  sat  in  the  arm-chair,  and 
kept  the  chamber  in  stillness,  dropping 
solitary  bits  of  coal  on  the  fire  with  his 
noiseless  hand.  He  thought  that  a 
night  of  undisturbed  rest  might  go  far 
to  refresh  and  strengthen  her.  And 
the  night  wore  on,  and  the  little  hours 
of  the  morning  struck. 

Lady  Kage  died  in  her  sleep ;  so 
peacefully,  so  calmly,  that  her  faithful 
son,  watching  by  her  side,  knew  not 
that  the  spirit  had  passed  away. 

Three  weeks  had  elapsed  since.  Only 
three  weeks  !  And  yet  it  seemed  to 
Thomas  Kage,  in  his  grief,  that  it  was 
nearly  half  a  life-time. 

Closing  the  hall-door,  he  turned  into 
the  room  where  they  had  so  often  sat 
together — the  dining- parlor.  There 
was  nobody  to  give  him  a  smile  of  wel- 
come now.  The  arm-chair  stood  there 
as  of  yore,  but  it  was  vacant ;  vacant 
for  ever. 


Dorothjr  came  in,  looking  rather  more 
grim  than  usual  in  her  black,  to  know 
if  he  wanted  an3Tthing.  He  was  left 
sole  executor  to  his  mother,  and  busi- 
ness connected  with  the  various  arrange- 
ment's had  brought  him  home  on  occa- 
sions in  the  middle  of  the  day.  No,  he 
wanted  nothing. 

"Mrs.  Lowther's  going  on  well  ;  and 
the  boy's  as  fine  a  boy  as  need  be  ;  I've 
been  round  to  see,"  jerked  out  Dorothy, 
who  always  seemed  to  speak  as  if  she 
were  at  variance  with  the  world  and  the 
listener. 

"  I  know,"  said  Thomas.  "  I  called 
there  this  morning." 

"  And  I've  took  in  the  news  to  Mrs. 
Garston,  sir."' 

"All  right,  Dorothy." 
Dorothy  shut  the  door  with  a  sharp 
click.  And  her  master,  opening  a  sec- 
rctoire,  set  himself  to  examine  some 
papers  in  it.  His  good  countenance 
was  pale  to-da}' ;  looking  like  that  of  a 
man  who  had  some  special  grief  upon 
him.  Grief  it  was,  in  truth  ;  he  had  so 
tenderly  loved  his  mother.  But  no  re- 
morse was  mingled  with  it.  Well 
would  it  be  for  us  all  had  we  performed 
our  duties  lovingly  and  faithfully  to 
those  gone  on  before,  as  had  Thomas 
Kage  !  There  would  be  less  of  bitter 
regret  in  the  world. 

Lad}r  Kage  had  expressed  a  wish  to 
her  son  that  he  should  continue  to  occu- 
py the  house  for  twelve  months  ;  and 
for  this  she  had  provided  in  her  will  ; 
paying  the  rent  for  that  time,  paying 
also  Dorothj^'s  wages.  The  greater  por- 
tion of  the  furniture,  he  found,  was  left 
to  him ;  a  little  of  it  only  going  to 
Charlotte.  Matters  in  the  household 
were  already  re-organized.  One  of  the 
maids  was  discharged ;  the  other  re- 
mained with  Dorothy;  and  Thomas 
Kage  was  the  sole  master. 

The  future  presented  itself  to  his  views 
in  an  indistinct  form  ;  something  like  a 
picture  with  a  veil  over  it.  Whether  he 
should  rise  rapidly  in  his  profession,  or 
get  only  bread-and-cheese  at  it  for  years 
and  years,  as  but  too  many  do,  he  knew 
not.  It  was  a  lottery  at  best.  On  very 
rare  occasions,  he  would  see,  as  in  a 
glimpse,  a  vision  of  success  :  the  old  house 
renovated,  ease  prevailing,  and  a  sweet 
form,  sitting  beside  the  chair  that  had 
been  his  mother's.  It's  realisation  was 
so  very  improbable,  that    he    wondered 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


45 


whether  he  was  becoming  foolish  for  an- 
ticipating such  a  thing.  Nevertheless, 
it  caused  his  heart  to  beat  and  his  cheek 
to  glow. 

Meanwhile,  a  hitch  occurred  in  the 
business  that  had  taken  him  to  Aberton, 
and  he  began  to  doubt  whether  there 
would  be  any  necessity  to  go  down  again 
In  which  case,  he  should  have  no  plea  for 
a  second  visit  to  Chilling. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CALLED    UP   BY   TELEGRAM. 

The  village  of  Chilling  was  a  small 
village,  scarcely  to  be  called  one.  It  was 
retired,  primitive,  and  very  beautiful.  A 
green  there  was,  on  which  the  stocks 
stood,  unused  now,  and  a  bare  common 
with  a  pound  in  its  corner.  The  high- 
road wound  past  both  green  and  common, 
with  its  handful  of  cottagers'  dwellings 
on  the  other  side  of  it.  It  went  wind- 
ing up  by  the  entrance-gates  of  the  Rock, 
leaving  the  gray  church  to  the  right, 
which  stood  midway  between  the  Rock 
and  the  village.  The  church  and  par- 
sonage were  alike  built  of  stone ;  but 
whereas  the  former  remained  rugged  and 
time-worn,  the  latter  had  undergone  ren- 
ovation and  improvement,  so  as  to  be,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  a  modern  dwell- 
ing-place. Some  few  mansions  were 
scattered  about — gentlemen's  seats — but 
none  of  them  could  boast  of  half  the  mag- 
nitude and  beauty  of  Mr.  Canterbury's5 — 
the  Rock.  Whence  it  derived  its  name 
— suggestive  of  bleak  cliffs  and  barren 
heights — none  now  living  could  tell.  Cer- 
tainly neither  rocks  nor  bleak  barrenness 
were  near  it ;  but,  instead,  all  that  can 
be  imagined  of  sunny  plains  and  rich  fo- 
liage, and  scenery  that  had  scarce  its  fel- 
low in  the  land. 

Passing  the  quaint  old  lodge  at  the 
entrance-gates,  the  open  park  was  gain- 
ed, soft  to  the  feet  as  grass-green  moss, 
white  in  the  season  with  its  chestnut 
blossoms.  The  trees  were  very  fine  ; 
the  deer  liked  to  rub  their  antlers  against 
them  ;  the  young  ladies,  George  Canter- 
bury's daughters,  used,  when  children,  to 
sport  under  their  shade.  There,  on  its 
gentle  eminence,  close  by  as  it  were,  for 
the  park  was  small,  rose  the  Rock,  with 


its  beautiful  parterres  of  many-colored 
flowers,  its  white  terraces,  and  its  fine 
broad  entrance-steps. 

A  castle  once  stood  there,  on  the  very 
self-same  spot.  Nearly  all  triice  of  it,  save 
its  legends,  had  long  since  passed  away  ; 
but  that  it  must  have  been  of  great  re- 
pute and  beauty  in  its  time,  the  preserv- 
ed records  showed.  George- Canterbury, 
iuto  whose  hands  they  had  come  when  he 
purchased  the  Rock,  kept  them  as  pre- 
cious heir-looms. 

The  house  faced  the  west,  the  terraces 
and  the  gay  parterres  of  flowers  alone 
intervening  between  it  and  the  park. 
On  the  northern  side  the  grounds  were 
also  comparatively  open,  and  laid  out 
with  exceeding  taste  ;  on  the  southern 
side  there  was  a  very  wilderness  of  shrubs 
and  trees,  extending  quite  to  the  bound- 
ary-wall, wonderfully  refreshing  to  the 
sight  on  a  day  of  burning  heat,  and  a 
grateful  resting-place  of  shelter  from  the 
afternoon  sun. 

In  the  midst  of  this  wilderness  stood 
an  old  well  or  fountain,  sparkling  with 
water  once  perhaps,  but  dry  now. 
Shrnbs,  withered  and  stunted  and  dark 
with  age,  green  and  beautiful  in  their 
long -past  prime,  clustered  round  the 
brink  in  a  tangled  mass,.  It  bore  the 
name  of  the  Lady's  Well ;  and  the  his- 
tory attaching  to  it,  whether  fabled  or 
real,  was  one  of  painful  interest.  The 
well  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
modern  times,  or  with  this  modern  story, 
so  its  legend  shall  be  omitted  altogether  ; 
for  some  readers  might  grumble  at  its 
insertion  as  a  needless  interruption. 
George  Canterbury,  who  held  possession 
of  it  amidst  other  records,  refreshed  his 
memory  with  a  perusal  of  it  from  time  to 
time.  He  felt  a  kind  of  pride  in  the  ac- 
cidental fact  that  his  own  son  had  borne 
the  same  name — Edgar — as  the  renown- 
ed Crusader-knight,  Edgar  de  Chilling. 
Strong-minded  Lydia  Canterbury,  the 
second  daughter,  who  was  of  a  hard,  prac- 
tical turn  of  mind,  without  an  ounce  of 
sentiment  to  leaven  it,  was  wont  to  say 
her  father's  brain  was  so  full  of  the  knight 
and  the  old  family,  that  he  had  grown,  she 
verily  believed,  to  think  he  was  descended 
from  them.  But  Miss  Lydia  was  rather 
free  of  tongue.  You  have  heard  Mrs. 
Garston,  seeing  her  after  her  marriage 
and  for  the  first  time,  pronounced  her  a 
"  tossed-ofij  bold-speaking  thing  :  "  and 


46 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


all  because  the  young  lady,  in  her  ran- 
dom freedom,  had  called  her  a  "  scare- 
crow." 

The   Lady's    well   had  a  fame  of  its 
own,  apart  from  its  romance  and  its  leg- 
ends.    Superstition  was  rife  there,  as  it 
is  in  manj'  places  to  which  curious  sto- 
ries attach.     A  lady's  ghost  was  said  to 
haunt  it  on  windy  nights  ;  and  very  few 
of  the    Rock's    female    retainers    would 
have  cared  to  promenade  on  that  side  the 
house  after  dark,  or  perhaps  in  daylight 
either.     Whether  from  this  cause  or  not, 
certain    it    was    that   this    part    of    the 
grounds  was  almost  entirely  unfrequent- 
ed.    The  gardeners  kept  the  clustering 
shrubs  and  trees  in  passable  order,  and 
there  the  culture  ended.     For  one  thing, 
nobody  had  cause  to  come  on  this  south- 
ern side  ;  the  state-entrance  la}'  in  front, 
the  household  entrance  at  the  back.    On 
the  northern  side  glassed-doors  opened 
to  the  beautiful  lawn,  and  were  very  gen- 
erally used  by  the  family.     A  tale  went 
abroad  that,  in  certain  conditions  of  the 
atmosphere,  a  reflection  of  a  grand  old 
castle  might  be  seen  in  the  sky,  above 
the  Rock,  something  after  the  fashion  of 
a    mirage.       Some    shepherds,    tending 
their  flocks  on  the  far-away  Welsh  hills, 
professed  to  have  seen  this  ;  and  forth- 
with it  was  assumed  to  be  a  picture  of 
the  once-famous  castle,  called  in  its  day 
the  Castle  of  Chillingwater.    Altogether, 
what   with   the    present    beauty    of  the 
place,  what  with  the  ancient  histories  of 
the  castle    whose    site  it  covered,   what 
with   the  still-existing  well  and  its  su- 
perstition, the  Rock  had  become  the  show- 
place  of  the  county;  and' it  was  quite  a 
common  thing  for  strangers  sojourning 
in  the  neighborhood  to  beg  permission  to 
go  over  it:  which  Mr.  Canterbury  was 
rather  proud,  than  otherwise,  to  accord. 
Thus  it  may  be  perceived  that  the  Rock 
was  one  of  those  fine  and  desirable  man- 
sions that  the  world    talks    and    writes 
about. 

It  was  of  more  importance  than  its 
owner,  George  Canterbury  ;  for  Mr.  Can- 
terbury, in  point  of  descent,  was  a  very 
small  personage  indeed.  He  and  his 
father — but  chiefly  his  father — had  made 
their  immense  fortune  in  mining  specu- 
lations ;  and  George  Canterbury  was  but 
a  young  man  when  he  withdrew  alto- 
gether from  business,  and  purchased  the 
Rock.     People,  making  a  random  guess, 


said  he  was  worth  a  million  of  money. 
He  was  certainly  worth  a  great  deal, 
but  nothing  like  so  much  as  that. 

Wealthy  and  luxurious  though  the 
Rock  was,  it  had  not  been  able  to  keep 
out  our  last  enemy.  Death  had  gone 
within  George  Canterbury's  portals,  and 
never  said,  With  your  leave,  or  By  your 
leave.  Mrs.  Canterbury  was  the  first  to 
die.  Miss  Canterbury  was  then  in  her 
twentieth  year,  and  she  had  at  once  as- 
sumed her  post  as  the  household's  most 
efficient  mistress.  Several  years  subse- 
quently, the  only  son  was  taken — Edgar. 
The  young  man,  after  he  came  to  years 
of  discretion,  was  neither  steady  nor  se- 
date :  certain  odds  and  ends  of  light  con- 
duct had  come  out  now  and  again,  and 
penetrated  to  the  ears  of  the  family, 
causing  concern  to  his  sisters,  bringing 
down  reprobation  from  his  father.  But 
when  his  almost  sudden  death  took  place, 
it  was  to  all  of  them  a  bitter  and  lasting 
grief.  His  faults  were  forgotten  ;  they 
were,  in  fact,  but  those  that  too  common- 
ly attach  to  young  men,  and  in  one  of 
less  exalted  station  would  never  have 
been  talked  about.  His  virtues  re- 
mained. Edgar  Canterbury  had  the 
making  of  a  fine  man  in  him,  and  would 
have  turned  out  well  yet,  had  his  life 
been  spared.  He  lay  ill  little  more  than 
a  week,  in  his  rooms  in  the  south  wing; 
and  then  died.  All  their  care,  all  their 
prayers,  all  the  medical  aid  brought  to- 
gether from  far  and  near,  did  not  avail 
to  save  him.  From  two  to  three  years 
had  elapsed  now ;  and  they  had  left  off 
their  mourning  for  him  :  but  the  south 
rooms  remained  untenanted,  almost  sa- 
cred ;  Edgar's  things  in  their  accustom- 
ed places,  just  as  though  he  inhabited 
them  still. 

Miss  Canterbury  was  now  regarded  as 
the  heiress  to  the  Rock.  That  she  would 
succeed  to  it  just  as  surely  as  though  it 
were  entailed  upon  her,  none  doubted. 
It  was  well  known  that  in  the  first 
weeks  succeeding  Edgar's  death  Mr. 
Norris,  the  family  solicitor,  had  been 
summoned  to  the  Rock  by  its  master,  to 
make  a  fresh  will.  It  was  legally  exe- 
cuted ;  and  Mr.  Canterbury  informed 
his  daughter  that  he  had  put  her  in  Ed- 
gar's place  ;  and  he  delivered  to  her  sun- 
dry injunctions,  charges,  wishes,  in  re- 
gard to  the  property,  when  he  should  be 
no    more.     None    of    the    property  was 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


47 


entailed.     In  all  respects  Miss  Canter- 
bury was  well  fitted  to  succeed  her  fa- 
ther;   gossips    said    she  would    make  a 
more    comprehensively -liberal    mistress 
than    he    had    been    a    master.     It  was 
certain     that    Miss     Canterbury    would 
never  marry — at  least,  as  certain  as  such 
contingencies    ever    can    be.      She    had 
been  on  the  point  of  marriage  once  to 
Harry  Lynn-Garston,  the  eldest  son  of 
Mr.    Lynn-Garston.     Very  painful    cir- 
cumstances   parted    them,    and    I    only 
wish  there  was  space  to  relate  the  his- 
tory ;    but   you    might    sa}T  it    took    up 
time  unnecessarily.     They  were  parted, 
and    Harry    Lynn-Garston's    death    fol- 
lowed rather  soon  upon  it.     Miss  Can- 
terbury said  nothing  to  the  world  ;  what- 
ever of  grief  and  remorse  she  might  feel 
— for  the  parting  was  her  doing,  not  his 
— she  buried  it  within    her  in    silence. 
She  had  loved  him  deeply,  enduringly, 
ardently,  and  never  more  so  than  when 
she  gave  him  his  dismissal.     Love  and 
haughty  pride   had    had   a  struggle  to- 
gether in  her  spirit ;  the  latter  conquer- 
ed, and  he  went  back  to  India  a  rejected 
man.     But  when  the  news  came  of  Cap- 
tain   Lynn  -  Garston's    death    in  battle, 
Miss    Canterbury   knew   that   the    sun- 
shine of  her  existence  had  gone  out  for 
ever.     She  made  no  sign  ;  for  all  people 
saw,  she  was  indifferently  tranquil ;  but 
later,  when  her  father  would  have  urged 
upon  her  the  acceptance  of  another  offer, 
she  quietly  told  him  she  should  live  and 
die  Olive  Canterbury.     And  she  was  not 
one  to  break  her  resolution,  in  that  mat- 
ter or  in  any  other. 

After  Mrs.  Canterbury's  death,  there 
had  been  a  stir  in  the  county.  Every 
mother  for  miles  round  who  had  daugh- 
ters waiting  to  be  married,  ordered 
horses  to  her  carriage,  and  set  off  to  con- 
dole with  George  Canterbury.  What 
though  he  had  a  flock  of  children — four 
daughters  and  a  son — was  not  the  Rock 
as  a  very  mansion  of  refuge,  if  by  good 
chance  it  might  be  attained  to  ?  Were 
not  the  riches,  real  and  fabulous,  as 
lumps  of  hanging  delight,  making 
hearts  hanker  and  mouths  water  ? 
Even  so.  George  Canterbury  had  to 
run  the  gauntlet  his  widowed  state 
brought  upon  him,  just  as  other  widow- 
ers with  desirable  possessions  are  run- 
ning it  at  this  very  hour.  He  came  out 
unscathed,    uncaught.     It    might    have 


been  that  the  very  palpable  nature  of 
the  overtures  put  him  on  his  guard. 
Something  or  other  rendered  him  mail- 
proof;  and  as  the  years  and  years  went 
on,  and  nothing  came  of  them,  the  hopes 
died  away  as  bad,  and  Mr.  Canterbury 
was  left  in  peace. 

So  the  Rock  was  to  be  the  inheritance 
of  Olive  Canterbury ;  and  it  was  sur- 
mised, by  those  likely  to  know,  that  the 
fortunes  of  the  three  younger  daughters 
would  be  about  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  each.  They  might  well  be  called 
heiresses !  Lydia  had  married  Mr. 
Dunn,  member  for  the  county.  He  was 
a  good  deal  older  than  herself.  Mr. 
Canterbury  had  settled  a  thousand  a- 
year  upon  her  ;  but  the  larger  portion 
of  her  fortune  would  not  be  hers  until 
his  death.  They  had  no  children,  ami 
Mr.  Dunn  had  latterly  been  in  ill-health. 
The  snow  had  dispersed  ;  the  country 
wore  a  warmer  aspect,  for  the  sun  shone 
brightly.  It  was  but  early  in  the  year, 
and  those  who  were  weatherwise  said 
winter  would  be  back  yet.  In  the 
breakfast-room  at  the  Rock,  the  white 
cloth  lighted  up  with  its  glittering  sil- 
ver, and  service  of  Worcester  china 
stood  the  two  elder  Miss  Canterburys, — 
Olive  and  Jane.  Olive  was  turned  thir- 
ty now — a  tall,  stateby,  handsome  woman, 
with  a  face  of  power,  but  good  and  gen- 
ial. Her  fine  hair  was  of  a  purple 
blackness,  her  features  were  pale  and 
clearly  cut,  her  eyes  were  dark  gray. 
They  had  some  trouble  in  their  depths 
this  morning.  Her  gleaming  silk  swept 
the  ground,  as  she  stood  with  a  folded 
paper  in  her  hand.  Olive  Canterbury 
was  never  seen  in  merinos  or  cottons. 
Jane,  the  next  sister,  was  fairer  and 
quieter  looking,  betraying  little  of  Ol- 
ive's decision  of  mind  and  manner. 

The  Rock  seemed  to  live  so  entirely 
within  itself,  possessing  few  interests 
without,  and  no  business,  that  the  arri- 
val of  a  telegram  was  a  startling  event. 
One  had  been  just  delivered,  addressed 
to  Mr.  Canterbury.  Olive  bent  her 
brow  a  little,  Jane  turned  pale.  !N~eel 
the  butler,  who  had  brought  it  in,  wait- 
ed for  orders. 

"  It  had  better  go  up  to  papa  at  once, 
!N*eel.     Is  he  getting  up,  do  you  know  ?  " 
"  Yes,    ma'am.     The    shaving  -  water 
went  in  some  time  ago." 
•'  Take  this  up,  then." 


48 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


Neel  went   out    with    the   formidable 

missive.     Millicent,    coming    in    at    the 
time,  saw  it  in  his  hand. 

"  What  is  that,  Olive  ?  "  she  asked, 
after  wishing  her  sisters  good-morning. 

"  A  telegraphic  despatch." 

"  A  telegraphic  despatch  ! "  repeated 
Millicent  in  a  frightened  tone.  "  0 
Olive  !  What  can  it  be  ?  Who  is  it 
from  ?  " 

"  Millicent,  child,  don't  put  yourself 
out ;    that  cau  do  no  good." 

"  What  are  you  fearing,  Olive  ?  " 

"That  something  is  amiss  with  Lydia 
or  her  husband.  I  know  of  no  one  else 
likely  to  be  telegraphing." 

"If  Lydia— Hark!" 

Mr.  Canterbury's  dressing-room  bell 
was  ringing  loudly.  Neel,  coming  down 
from  delivering  the  despatch  to  his  mas- 
ter, hastened  back  again. 

"  Breakfast  instantly  !  "  was  the  order. 
"  Tell  Miss  Canterbury." 

The  telegram  was  from  Mrs.  Dunn. 
Her  husband  was  alarmingly  worse,  it 
was  feared  dying,  and  Mr.  Canterbury 
was  prayed  to  hasten  to  London. 

Mr.  Canterbury  was  one  of  those  who 
can  but  lose  their  heads  on  such  an  oc- 
casion. Olive  would  have  been  as  tran- 
quil as  the  day.  Everything  necessar}" 
to  be  done  could  have  been  done  for  him. 
His  servants  would  have  put  up  his 
clothes  ;  he  had  but  to  say,  "  I  am  going 
to  London,"  and  take  his  breakfast  in 
peace,  and  step  into  his  carriage  to  be 
combed  leisurely  to  the  station  at  Ab- 
erton.  Not  so.  Mr.  Canterbury  was  in 
as  much  commotion  as  though  his  own 
life  depended  on  his  departure,  or  as  if 
the  business  of  the  world  had  been  sud- 
denly thrown  upon  his  shoulders.  He 
could  not  take  his  breakfast  sitting; 
every  moment  he  got  up  from  it — now 
looking  from  the  window,  now  dodging 
to  the  fire,  now  calling  out,  "I  shall  want 
this  put  into  my  portmanteau,"  or  "  I 
shall  not  want  that."  To  be  summoned 
out  in  this  haste  had  never  occurred  to 
him  before  in  his  tranquil  life,  so  there 
might  be  an  excuse  for  him. 

"  Dear  papa,  it  will  be  all  right,"  spoke 
Olive  ;  "  there  is  not  the  slightest  neces- 
sity for  this.  The  first  train  you  can  go 
by  is  the  ten  o'clock." 

"  Dear  me  !  I'm  sure  I  shall  not  get 
there.  I  know  I  shall  forget  everything 
I  ought  to  take.     Had  there  been  time, 


I  should  have  liked  to  ask  whether  I 
could  take  up  any  message  for  the  par- 
sonage. '  Their  relations,  the  London 
Annesleys,  live  close  by  Lydia." 

"  I  will  go  to  the  parsonage  and  in- 
quire, papa,"  said  Millicent,  starting  up. 
"  I'll  bring  you  back  word." 

;'  You  have  not  finished  breakfast." 

"Indeed  I  have.  While  you've  been 
fidgetting,  papa,  I've  been  eating. 
There's  plenty  and  plenty  of  time." 

In  two  minutes  Millicent  was  out  of 
the  house,  her  mantle  on,  and  tying  her 
bonnet  as  she  ran  through  the  park,  and 
gained  the  road.  The  church  was  not  far, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so;  the  schools 
were  on  that  side  it,  the  parsonage  was 
on  this.  It  was  a  low,  broad  house, 
sheltered  by  trees,  with  a  portico  en- 
trance, and  a  level  lawn,  surrounded  by 
sweet-scented  flowers.  Woodbine,  wild- 
roses,  clematis,  jasamine,  clustered  round 
the  porch  in  summer,  and  spread  to  the 
lower  windows  on  either  side. 

The  Reverend  Philip  Annesley,  Rec- 
tor of  Chilling  for  the  past  five-ami  thir- 
ty years,  was  old  now  and  fading  fast. 
He  had  christened  all  George  Canter- 
bury's children,  and  they  looked  up  to 
him  as  a  second  father.  It  was  a  break- 
down altogether,  rather  than  any  spe- 
cific malady.  Sarah  Annesle}',  his  con- 
siderate, dutiful  and  most  loving  daugh- 
ter, bitterly  regretted  having  left  him 
for  so  many  weeks  the  previous  autumn, 
to  accompany  Mrs.  Kage  to  the  sea-i-ide. 
There  lay  on  her  mind  a  lively  resent- 
ment against  that  lady  for  having  taken 
her,  which  was  perhaps  a  little  unjust. 

Entering  on  her  hasty  errand,  Milli- 
cent found  Miss  Annesley  in  trouble. 
Her  father  was  palpabl}-  weaker  that 
morning  than  he  had  been  at  all — quite 
unable  to  get  up.  For  the  first  time,  the 
doctor  had  not  ventured  to  speak  of 
hope.  Millicent,  struck  into  herself  at 
the  news,  did  not  at  once  mention  the 
cause  of  her  early  visit. 

"I  thought  until  to-da3r  he  might  ral- 
ly and  get  about  again,"  said  Sarah,  as 
they  stood  side  by  side  on  the  hearthrug, 
the  firelight  betra}Ting  the  tears  resting 
in  her  eyes,  and  causing  them  to  glitter 
like  glass;  "but  I  do  fear  now  there  is 
not  much  hope  of  it.  And  0,  how  I 
blame  myself!  " 

"  For  what  ?  "  asked  Millicent  in  sur- 
prise. 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


49 


If  ever  there  had  been  a  daughter  anx- 
ious to  fulfil  unselfishly  every  duty  of 
life,  it  had  surely  been  Sarah  Annesley. 

"  For  having  left  him  alone  in  the  au- 
tumn, you  know.  I  spoke  of  this  to  you 
once  before,  Millicent.  The  regret 
grows  upon  me;  it  lies  with  a  heavy 
weight  to-day.  Six  weeks  !  six  weeks, 
Millicent ! — and  he  seventy-five  !  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself  for  my  thoughtless- 
ness. It  seems  to  me  at  odd  moments 
as  if  I  could  not  be  forgiven  by  Heav- 
en." 

"  But  he  was  so  well  at  that  time." 

"  I  know  it.  So  well,  that  I  was 
lulled  into  a  false  security.  I  did  think 
I  ought  not  to  leave  him  ;  and  when 
Mrs.  Kage  first  proposed  to  me  to  accom- 
pany her,  I  said  decisively  that  I  could 
not  quit  my  father.  What  did  she  do  ? 
She  came  here  one  afternoon  when  I  had 
gone  out  with  Caroline,  and  talked  papa 
into  the  belief  that  I  required  a  change 
and  sea-air.  I  think  she  alarmed  him 
about  me,  saying  I  looked  pale  and  fag- 
ged ;  I  do,  indeed,  Millicent.  Papa 
made  all  the  arrangement  at  once,  with- 
out waiting  to  consult  me,  and  I  was 
weak  enough  and  wicked  enough,  after  a 
faint  opposition,  to  fall  in  with  them." 

'■'  And  so  would  any  one  else,  Sarah." 

"  When  I  came  home,  at  the  end  of 
the  six  weeks,  and  saw  the  alteration  in 
papa,  my  heart  sunk  within  me.  Of 
course,  the  chief  fault  was  mine  ;  but  I 
do  feel  afraid  that  I  have  hated  Mrs. 
Kage  ever  since." 

"  0  Sarah  !  It  was  so  kind  of  her  to 
take  charge  of  us."' 

"I  don't  think  it  was  done  in  kind- 
ness," avowed  Sarah,  speaking  freely  in 
her  honest  indignation.  *' I  think  she 
only  proposed  for  us  to  go  that.s/t#  might 
be  able  to  do  so.  The  sum  she  named 
to  papa  as  my  share  of  the  expenses  was 
not  very  large  ;  but  she  brought  back 
an  account  which  was,  and  the  payment 
of  it  crippled  him.  Millicent,  she  had 
a  larger  one  from  Mr.  Canterbury  ;  and 
I  know  the  two  must  have  paid  the 
whole  cost  of  the  expedition,  so  that  she 
and  Caroline  went  free." 

A  flush  shone  in  Millicent's  face  at  the 
possibility  of  the  truth.  She  —  simple, 
honest,  guileless  —  could  not  quite  be- 
lieve it.  Sarah  had  said  somewhat  of 
this  before,  but  not  so  full  v. 

"  The  regret  lies  upou  me  with  pain-  I 


ful  bitterness,"  resumed  Miss  Annesley. 
"I  cannot  sleep;  and  if  I  do  get  to 
sleep,  I  wake  up  again  with  a  start. 
Never  before  did  I  know  what  remorse 
was." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  your  sorrow 
for  Mr.  Annesley  is  causing  you  to  take 
an  exaggerated  view  of  this  ?  "  Mil- 
licent ventured  to  ask. 

"No.  But  for  my  leaving  him  all 
that  while,  I  do  not  think  his  health 
would  have  failed  so  soon,"  Sarah  con- 
tinued in  a  low  tone  of  emotion,  as  she 
pressed  her  face  down  on  the  cold  white- 
marble  mantelpiece  to  hide  its  anguish. 
"  He  had  more  work  to  do  in  the  parish, 
mine  and  his  own  ;  he  had  no  one  to 
help  him  in  the  visiting;  he  took  all 
the  duty  on  the  three  Sundays  when 
Mr.  Lowe  was  ill ;  and  he  finished  up 
by  catching  a  terrible  cold,  which  he 
could  not  stay  indoors  to  nurse.  Alto- 
gether, it  told  upon  him,  Millicent,  and 
he  broke  down  earlier  than  he  would 
have  done." 

"  I  cannot  stay,  Sarah,"  Millicent 
said,  as  she  proceeded  to  tell  of  Mr. 
Canterbury's  summons  to  London,  and 
inquire  if  he  could  do  anything. 

"  Thank  you,  no.  Should  he  see 
Mrs.  Annesley,  he  can  explain  to  her 
how  ill  papa  is.  We  have  never  had 
much  acquaintance  with  the  London 
Annesleys,  Millicent.  I  fane}'  she  is  a 
very  cold  woman.  I  hope  your  papa 
will  find  Mr.  Dunn  better.  I  wonder 
Lydia  did  not  send  for  Miss  Canterbury 
or  Jane." 

"  You  must  have  forgotten  Lydia  to 
suppose  she  could  do  an}'thing  of  the 
sort,"  answered  Millicent,  with  a  smile. 
"  Lydia  stands  upon  her  own  indepen- 
dence. She  would  be  far  likelier  to 
warn  Miss  Canterbury  and  Jane  that 
she  did  not  want  them,  than  to  accept 
of  their  companionship  if  offered.  She 
is  so  strong-minded,  you  know.  Good- 
bye, Sarah.     Papa  will  be  in  a  fever." 

The  first  thing  she  saw  on  quitting 
the  rectory-gate  was  the  carriage  of 
Mr.  Canterbury.  It  drew  up  ;  the  foot- 
man got  down  to  open  the  door,  and 
Millicent  delivered  the  slight  message 
to  her  impatient  father. 

"  Oh,  very  well.  Good  -  bye,  Leta 
dear.  I  know  I  shall  be  late  at  the 
station." 

The    handsome  equipage  bowled    on, 


50 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


and  Millicent  glanced  after  it  with  a 
smile.  He  would  be,  as  she  had  ex- 
pressed it,  in  a  fever  until  he  got  to  the 
station,  and  then  he  would  have  twenty 
minutes  to  spare. 

"  What  is  the  carriage  abroad  so 
early  for  ?  " 

A  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder  as 
the  question  was  put,  and  Millicent 
turned  to  see  the  lovely  face  of  Caroline 
Kage.  If  it  was  unusual  to  see  Mr. 
Canterbury's  carriage  abroad  at  that 
early  hour,  it  was  at  least  as'unusual  to 
see  her.  And  Millicent,  as  a  great 
many  more  of  us  do,  asked  the  reason 
of  it,  instead  of  answering  the  question. 

"  Mamma  came  down  in  the  crossest 
mood  possible.  She  found  fault  with 
me  and  with  everybody  else,  so  I 
thought  I  would  go  and  and  have  a 
whole  morning  at  the  schools.  Work 
now  and  then  makes  a  change.  Good- 
ness knows  it  is  monotonous  enough 
here." 

"  Monotonous !  " 

"  I  feel  it  so.  That  time  at  the  sea- 
side last  autumn  did  me  harm,  I  sup- 
pose, insomuch  as  that  I  have  found 
Chilling  intolerably  weary  since.  And 
the  carriage,  Leta  ?  " 

Leta  told  her  what  had  happened, 
and  where  Mr.  Canterbury  had  gone. 
To  London  :  summoned  by  the  startling 
dispatch. 

"  Did  you  charge  him  to  give  your 
love?" 

"No;  I  forgot  it.  Things  have  all 
been  at  sixes  and  sevens  this  morning. 
Lydia  would  not  have  appreciated  it  if 
1  had  ;  she  never  cares  for  such  messa- 
ges, and  never  sends  them." 

"  I  was  not  speaking  of  Lydia,  but 
of  Thomas  Kage." 

"  Caroline  ! " 

"  Ah,  well !  You  would  have  liked 
to  send  it  him,  you  know ;  and  he 
would  have  liked  to  receive  it.  He  has 
only  you,  now  his  mother's  gone. 
Don't  you  get  scarlet,  Leta  ?  " 

Leta  Canterbury  ran  away.  How- 
ever the  name  of  Thomas  Kage  might 
cause  her  heart  to  glow,  it  was  not 
pleasant  to  be  thus  spoken  to.  Caro- 
line— false  Caroline  !  —  went  on  to  the 
post-office  before  turning  in  at  the 
schools,  and  dropped  a  letter  into  the 
box,  addressed  to  Thomas  Kage. 

For  they  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of 


corresponding   with    each    other.      But 
onl}r  as  friends — or  cousins. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

UNDER    THE    MOONLIT    SKY.. 

It  was  a  bright  Easter.  And  things, 
since  that  hurried  visit  of  Mr.  Canter- 
bury's to  London,  had  had  time  to  get 
round.  Mr.  Dunn  had  died  ;  but  Mr. 
Annesley  was  better,  and  at  his  duty 
again.  It  is  true  the  old  pastor  shook 
his  head,  and  said  it  was  but  like  the 
spark  of  a  dying  candle,  life  flickering 
up  momentarily  before  going  out. 

Easter  Monday  was  a  great  day  at 
Chilling.  Prayers  at  the  church  in  the 
morning,  the  poor  children's  treat  in 
the  school-house  in  the  afternoon,  a  din- 
ner at  the  Rock  in  the  evening.  They 
were  on  their  way  to  the  school-house 
now. 

The  parsonage-gate  was  swung  back, 
and  the  good  old  Rector,  with  his  be- 
nevolent face  a*nd  his  white  hair,  came 
forth,  leaning  on  his  daughter's  arm. 
On  the  small  patch  of  greensward  be- 
side the  schools  he  encountered  a  group 
of  friends  who  had  stayed  to  talk — the 
Miss  Canterburys,  the  Honorable  and 
Reverend  Austin  Rufort,  Mrs.  Kage 
and  her  daughter.  Mr.  Rufort,  a  tall 
and  fine  man,  some  years  past  thirty, 
displaced  Miss  Annesley  from  her  post 
with  a  smile,  and  gave  his  strong  arm 
of  support  to  the  Rector — for  whom  he 
had  latterly  often  come  over  to  do  duty. 
All  these  were  to  dine  at  the  Rock  in 
the  evening. 

"  Papa,  you  are  only  to  stay  in  the 
school  half  an  hour,  you  know,  said 
Sarah.  "  You  will  like  to  say  grace, 
but  Mr.  Rufort  must  do  all  the  talk- 
ing." 

"  Every  word  of  it,"  put  in  Mr.  Ru- 
fort. 

"  I  wonder,  my  dear  sir,  that  you 
should  venture  to  the  school  at  all," 
languidly  observed  Mrs.  Kage.  "Char- 
ity children  are  tiresome  animals  at  the 
best." 

Mrs.  Kage  held  her  glass  to  her  eye 
as  she  spoke,  surveying  fresh  comers. 
She  wore  a  lavender- silk  gown  and 
white  bonnet,  and  would  have  called  it 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


51 


mourning  with  a  steady  face.  She  had 
put  on  "complimentary  mourning"  for 
Lady  Kage,  as  the  latter  had  a  title. 
It  sounded  well  to  say  to  the  world  "  I 
am  in  mourning  for  the  late  Lady 
Kage,"  however  she  might  have  despis- 
ed that  lady  during  life.  The  Miss 
Canterburys  were  in  mourning  for  Mr. 
Dunn — black  silk  and  crape. 

"  Ah,  Fry  ! "  cried  the  Rector,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  to  an  elderly  man  who 
was  leaning  on  a  stick.  "  How  are  you, 
Fry  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I'd  crawl  out,  sir,  this 
fine  dajT  and  just  have  a  look  at  'em  for 
the  last  time,"  said  the  man  addressed, 
who  was  the  parish  clerk,  though  unable 
to  perform  his  duty  now,  and  had  been 
the  boys'  schoolmaster.  "  Your  servant, 
gentlefolks.  —  I  shall  be  lying  low 
enough  before  another  Easter,  sir." 

"  And  somebody  else  b}r  your  side, 
John,  unless  I  am  mistaken."  replied 
Mr.  Annesley  with  significance. 

So  much  occupied  were  they  with 
each  other,  these  people,  as  not  to  ob- 
serve some  one  turn  off  the  high-road 
and  come  towards  them  :  a  gentleman 
in  black,  with  a  deep  band  on  his  hat. 
Mrs.  Kage,  twirling  her  eye-glass  on 
various  objects  within  range,  twirled  it 
at  length  on  him  ;  and  certainly  thought, 
when  she  had  got  him  well  to  view,  that 
the  glass  must  be  playing  her  false. 
For  it  was  Thomas  Kage. 

"  How  very  extraordinary  ! "  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Kage.  "  What  can  bring 
him  here  ?  " 

They  wheeled  round  at  the  words. 
He  was  close  up  then,  and  his  appear- 
ance excited  no  little  commotion,  out- 
wardly and  inwardly.  Those  who  knew 
him — Mr.  Annesley  and  his  daughter 
— put  out  their  hands  to  welcome  him, 
Mrs.  Kage  extended  the  tip  of  her  fore- 
finger; those  who  did  not,  stared;  and 
the  two  young  ladies,  Millicent  and  Car- 
oline, were  conscious  that  burning  blush- 
es arose  in  their  faces  and  a  soft  tumult 
in  their  hearts. 

Millicent  very  shyly  introduced  him  to 
her  sisters — "  Mr.  Kage."  And  Olive, 
who  did  not  remember  so  much  about 
"  Mr.  Kage  "  as  she  did,  was  in  some 
doubt,  but  she  bowed  courteously  in  her 
grand  way;  and  took  an  opportunity  of 
inquiring  of  her  sister. 

"  What  Mr.  Kage  is  it,  Leta  ?  Who 
is  he  ?  " 


"  Why,  Olive,  don't  you  know  ?  The 
Mr.  Kage  we  saw  at  Little  Bay.  He 
came  down  here  last  January,  and  had 
not  time  to  call  ;  papa  saw  him  at  the 
rectory;  and  his  mother,  Lady  Kage, 
died  as  soon  as  he  got  back  to  London." 

Rather  a  roundabout  explanation,  Ol- 
ive thought,  and  shyly  delivered;  but 
Leta  was  naturally  shy,  and  not  very  flu- 
ent of  speech.  01iv£,  enlightened  as  to 
the  identity,  turned  to  the  stranger  to 
make  better  acquaintance  with  him  ; 
she  had  heard  through  the  Garstons  of 
this  mother  and  son — heard  nothing  but 
good  ;  and  she  liked  his  face  besides. 
Olive  Canterbury  could  read  countenan- 
ces as  a  book,  and  said  none  had  ever  de- 
ceived her.  Leta  blushed  again  violently, 
for  she  saw  her  father  come  up  to  Mr. 
Kage,  with  a  stretched-out  hand.  Besides 
that  first  meeting  at  the  parsonage,  they 
had  since  made  better  acquaintance  with 
each  other  in  London. 

Mr.  Kage's  appearance  was  soon  ex- 
plained. The  business  on  which  he 
previously  came  to  Aberton  had  again 
brought  him  down,  whence  he  had  walked 
over  to  Chilling. 

"  Being  holiday  in  London,  I  took  the 
opportunity  of  running  down,"  he  said, 
"  not  remembering  that  it  would  be  a 
greater  holiday  in  the  country,  and  all 
the  Aberton  business  people  off  for  the 
day.  I  must  remain  there  now  until  to- 
morrow." 

"  And  dine  with  me,  I  hope,  this  eve- 
ning at  the  Rock,"  said  Mr.  Canterbury. 
"  We  shall  be  a  pleasant  party  ;  all  these 
friends  are  to  meet  there." 

"  Thank  you.  But  I  have  no  dinner- 
coat  with  me." 

The}7  laughed  at  that.  Miss  Canter- 
bury pointedly  said  that  she  would  be 
just  as  happy  to  see  him  in  his  frock- 
coat  as  in  any  other ;  and  Mr.  Rufort 
declared  he  meant  to  appear  in  a  long 
coat,  and  not  a  short  one.  And  so  it  was 
settled. 

Millicent,  stealing  glances  at  him  from 
where  she  stood  apart,  thought  he  was 
looking  ill — wan,  thin,  pale.  As  indeed 
he  had  looked  ever  since  his  mother's 
death,  for  his  grief  for  her  was  indulged 
to  an  extent  that  told  upon  him. 

But  the  school-room  was  waiting,  and 
they  turned  to  it.  Caroline  Kage,  her 
lovety  face  radiant,  lingered  behind  with 
Millicent,  deceitfully  feeding — as  was  her 


52 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


wont  to  do — the  unsuspecting  girl's  heart 
with  whispers  of  the  love  of  Thomas  Kage. 

"  He  must  have  dreamt  of  the  fete  to- 
day, Leta,  and  that  lie  would  meet  you  at 
it." 

u  He  is  meeting  the  rest  as  well." 

"  What  of  that  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  think  he  looks  ill  ?  " 

Caroline  had  noticed  nothing  of  it. 
She  was  not  a  quick  observer. 

"  Everyone  looks  pale  in  deep  mourn- 
ing. He  is  in  black,  you  see,  even  to  his 
shirt-studs." 

"  Yes.  But  his  face  has  a  wan,  worn 
look." 

"  That's  through  pining  after  you." 

"  Caroline."  said  Leta  very  gravely, 
and  with  a  warm  flush,  "  I  must  once 
more  beg  of  you  not  to  continue  this. 
Why  will  you  persist  in  doing  it  ?  It  is 
the  height  of  folly,  besides  being  unpleas- 
ant to  me,  to  couple  m}r  name  with  that 
of  Mr.  Kage.  We  have  nothing  at  all  to 
•do  with  each  other,  as  you  must  know. 
He  does  not  care  for  me  more  than  he 
does  for  any  one  else." 

"  Which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  you 
do  not  care  for  him." 

"  No,  it  is  not.  Do  pray  drop  it  for 
the  future.  Fancy  the  dilemma  I  should 
be  in  if  Olive  or  any  of  them-  heard  you." 

Caroline  laughed  provokingly. 

"  Please,  Caroline ;  you  would  not  like 
it  yourself.  Only  think  of  his  having 
met  papa  in  London  !  Papa  never  men- 
tioned it." 

"  I  wonder  how  he  is  left  ?  "  cried  Car- 
oline abruptly. 

"  Left !  " 

"  As  to  money.  Mamma  says  Lady 
Kage  was  a  great  screw,  so  she  may  have 
saved  a  fortune." 

"  I  once  heard  your  mamma  say  Lady 
Kage  was  very  poor.  Perhaps  she  meant 
poor  for  a  titled  woman." 

"  There  he  is,  waiting  for — for  you, 
Leta." 

Mr.  Kage  had  halted  outside  the 
school-house,  and  was  looking  back. 
The  soft  flush  on  Caroline's  face  deep- 
ened ;  and  it  was  she  who  walked  in  with 
him  side-by-side — in  spite  of  her  words 
— leaving  Leta  anywhere. 

School-treats  were  not  in  Mrs.  Kage's 
line.  She  came  out  to  them  because  oth- 
ers did,  and  that  it  was  a  kind  of  a  gala- 
time,  allowing  for  the  display  of  her  best 
dress  and   sentimental    manners.     This 


one  proved  not  more  palatable  than  oth- 
ers had  been  ;  and  when  the  Rector  left, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  Thomas  Kage — 
of  whom  he  was  asking  questions  about 
his  old  friend  Mrs.  Garston — Mrs.  Kage 
took  the  opportunity  of  leaving  also. 
There  was  nothing  to  wait  for  :  Mr.  Can- 
terbury had  stayed  but  a  short  while, 
Lord  Rufort  had  not  come  ;  they  were 
the  two  great  resources  of  Mrs.  Kage, 
with  whom  she  liked  to  consort — the  one 
held  in  estimation  through  his  riches,  the 
other  through  his  rank.  "  When  I  am 
with  Lord  Rufort,  I  feel  at  home  ;  it 
seems  like  old  days  come  back  again," 
Mrs.  Kage  was  rather  fond  of  saying  to 
her  friends. 

Leaving  the  clergyman  indoors,  Mrs. 
Kage  turned  towards  her  home,  taking, 
without  ceremony,  the  arm  of  Thomas, 
that  he  might  attend  her  to  it. 

"You  are  not  in  a  hurry  to  get  back 
for  five  mflnutes  ?  "  observed  Mrs.  Kage. 

In  point  of  fact,  that  estimable  lady 
had  an  end  to  serve.  In  spite  of  her 
daughter's  ruse  to  deceive  her,  persisted  in 
still,  Mrs.  Kage  could  not  help  indulg- 
ing a  faint  suspicion  that  the  love,  if 
there  existed  any,  was  not  between  Mr. 
Kage  and  Leta  Canterbury,  but  between 
Mr.  Kage  and  Caroline  herself.  This 
would  be  terribly  awkward — not  to  be 
thought  of  at  all  if  Thomas  had  nothing; 
but  his  profession  ;  if,  however,  he  had 
inherited  money-  from  his  mother,  why 
perhaps  his  having  the  misfortune  to  he 
the  son  of  that  despised  woman  might  in 
time  be  overcome.  Mrs.  Kage  had  heard 
of  instances  where  barristers  (on  whom 
she  scornfully  looked  down  as  a  class) 
had  risen  to  the  Woolsack.  A  rumor  had 
reached  Chilling  that  Lady  Kage  had 
died  rich.  Mrs.  Kage  was  surprised,  but 
thought  it  might  be.  This  must  be  as- 
certained. 

Crossing  the  road  from  the  rectory,  a 
privet-path — as  it  was  called,  from  there 
being  a  privet-hedge  on  either  side  of  it 
— led  to  Mrs.  Kage's  house.  It  was 
not  far,  and  she  talked  of  ordinary 
things  as  they  went  along.  Causing 
him  to  enter  the  sitting-room,  she  closed 
the  dooi*. 

"  And  now  that  we  have  a  moment  to 
ourselves,  Thomas  dear,  you  must  allow 
me  to  ask  how  things  are  left?"  she 
began  in  an  affectionate,  confidential 
tone,  such  as  she  had  never  used  to  him 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


53 


in  her  life.  "  Your  dear  mother's  death 
came  upon  me,  I  assure  you,  with  an 
overwhelming  shock." 

"  As  it  did  on  all  of  us,"  he  quietly 
answered,  standing  by  the  window, 
while  she  took  a  seat  on  the  opposite 
sofa. 

"  Ay,  it  was  very  sad.  I  would  have 
made  Caroline  read  the  burial  service  to 
me  the  day  of  the  interment,  but  that 
it  might  have  given  her  gloomy  ideas, 
poor  child." 

The  calling  up  of  such  was  by  no 
means  agreeable  to  Mrs.  Kage  herself, 
even  now  ;  and  she  emptied  three-fourths 
of  a  phial  of  cologne-water  on  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

"  Sit  down,  Thomas  ;  I  cannot  talk  on 
these  melancholy  subjects  unless  people 
are  close  to  me.  Are  you  left  well  off, 
my  dear  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal  better  than  I  expected 
to  be.  My  mother  was  full  of  love  for 
me  to  the  end." 

"  That's  well,"  said  Mrs.  Kage,  open- 
ing her  fan  complaisantly.  "  Had  La- 
dy Kage  saved  much  money  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  consider  that  she  had." 

His  ideas,  in  so  answering,  were  run- 
ning on  his  mother's  small  income,  and 
what  she  had  to  make  it  do  for.  Mrs. 
Kage's  notions  were  altogether  different, 
very  high  in  the  air  indeed. 

•'  And  she  has  left  it  all  to  you,  dear- 
est Thomas  ?  " 

'  She  has  left  it  all  to  my  sister,  Mrs. 
Lowther.     Not  any  of  it  to  me." 

It  was  very  rare  that  Mrs.  Kage  al- 
lowed so  vulgar  an  emotion  as  surprise 
to  be  seen  on  her  face,  but  she  could  not 
help  it  now.  And,  indeed,  this  answer 
seemed  at  variance- with  what  he  had 
just  said.      Her  manner  froze  a  little. 

"  We  are  connections,  you  know, 
Thomas ;  I  can  scarcely  say  relatives. 
Perhaps  you  will  not  mind  telling  me 
the  particulars  of  how  }Tour  mother's  af- 
fairs were  left.  It  is  only  natural  that 
I  should  have  thought  sometimes  about 
it." 

"  I  will  tell  you  everything  with  the 
greatest  pleasure,"  he  replied,  his  good, 
frank  countenance  bent  a  little  forward, 
his  honest  eyes  fixed  on  hers  as  he  sat,' 
his  arm  resting  on  the  table,  There  is 
not  much  to  tell ■" 

"  Your  mother  made  a  will,  I  pre- 
sume ?  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Kage  sharply. 


"She  made  a  will,  and  left  me  sole 
executor.  The  money  she  has  been  able 
to  save,  turned  out,  after  all  claims  were 
paid  to  be  over  eight  hundred  pounds. 
I  gave  Charlotte  my  cheque  for  it  last 
week." 

Mrs.  Kage's  mouth  dropped.  To  one 
whose  thoughts  are  running  on  twice  as 
many  thousands,  eight  hundred  pounds 
seems  very  mean  and  poor. 

"01"  said  Mrs.  Kage.  « Then 
what  did  you  mean  by  saying  she  left 
you  better  off  than  you  expected  ?  " 

"  When  the  will  was  opened,  I  found 
she  had  left  me  the  greater  portion  of 
the  furniture.  A  few  of  the  things  only 
go  to  Charlotte,  and  half  the  silver, 
which  was  but  a  very  small  stock  alto- 
gether. A  sum  was  set  apart  for  the 
next  year's  rent,  and  I  am  enjoined  to 
remain  in  the-  house  for  that  period, 
should  nothing  of  importance  call  me 
out  of  it." 

Mrs.  Kage  was  fanning  herself  rather 
violently.  "  A  very  unjust  will,  I  must 
say  !  "  she  remarked.  "  Charlotte  Low- 
ther was  no  blood  -  relation  to  your 
mother." 

"  She  was  my  fathers  child  ;  and  my 
mother  loved  her  as  her  own.  Besides, 
Charlotte  wants  help  far  more  than  I  do. 
I  think  the  will  the  justest  that  my  dear 
mother  could  have  made." 

"  Oblige  me  by  setting  light  to  a  pas- 
tile,  Thomas  ;  there's  one  close  to  you. 
Did  Lady  Kage  leave  anything  to  Doro- 
thy ?  " 

"  She  left  her  to  me,"  he  answered, 
with  a  slight  smile,  as  he  looked  for  the 
pastile.  "  Dorothy  had  some  clothes 
and  twenty  pounds,  and  her  next  year's 
wages  paid  in  advance." 

"  And  \'ou  have  only  a  few  paltry  bits 
of  old  furniture  !  Dear  me  !  "One  does 
hear  of  queer  things." 

"  It  is  so  much  more  than  I  looked 
for.  I  only  thought  to  have  her  bless- 
ing. Do  you  know,  when  I  read  the  will, 
and  found  the  home  was  secured  to  me  for 
a  year,  and  the  rent  paid,  and  Dorothy's 
wages,  I  felt  like  a  rich  man.  If  I  could 
only  see  my  mother  for  one  minute  to 
pour  out  my  gratitude  !  " 

Mrs.  Kage  did  not  think  it  worth 
while  to  contend  further ;  she  looked 
upon  him  as  only  three  degrees  removed 
from  a  fool.  She  felt  half  inclined  to 
look  upon  herself  as  another,  for  having 


54 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


for  a  moment  entertained  the  thought 
that  Lady  Kage  could  have  died  worth 
any  thing  to  speak  of.  Thomas  was  at 
liberty  to  quit  her  now  ;  and  she  com- 
posed herself,  after  a  few  drops  of  red 
lavender,  which  the  maid  came  in  to  ad- 
minister, to  take  a  refreshing  nap. 

It  lasted  so  long  that  she  found,  on 
awaking,  she  had  barely  time  to  dress  for 
dinner  at  the  Rock.  Caroline  was  late, 
too,  and  came  forth  from  her  room  at  the 
last  moment,  in  a  white  dress  and  black 
sash,  with  jet  necklace  and  bracelets. 
Mrs.  Kage  stared  at  the  attire,  so  differ- 
ent from  what  had  been  fixed  upon. 

'•  And  your  pink  silk  ?  And  your 
pearls  ?  " 

"  O  mamma,  I  could  not  put  them 
on  !  "  was  Caroline's  answer,  with  quite 
a  burst  of  fueling.  "  How  could  I  go 
out  flaunting  in  colors,  when  Thomas 
Kage  in  his  deep  black,  was  to  dine  at 
my  side  ?  " 

"  You  were  not  in  mourning  to-day. 
He  saw  you  then." 

"  I  know  it  all  ;  and  I  never  felt  so 
ashamed  of  myself  before.  He  cared  so 
much  for  his  mother;  and  sbe  has  not 
been  dead  quite  two  months  !" 

"  And  if  she  has  not  ?  " 

"  He  must  think  us  so  heartless." 

u  It  is  not  of  any  consequence  what 
he  thinks.  He — Is  that  the  carriage? 
Dear  me  !  I  wanted  to  have  told  you 
something." 

The  fine  large  close  carriage  with  its 
attendant  servants,  belonging  to  the 
Rock,  had  bowled  up,  Mr.  and  Miss  An- 
nesley  inside.  It  had  been  arranged 
that  it  should  call  for  Mrs.  Kage  and 
Caroline,  and  convey  them  home  in  the 
evening. 

Thomas  Kage,  he  could  not  tell  why, 
unless  it  was  through  hearing  so  much 
of  the  vast  revenues  of  the  master  of 
the  Rock,  had  in  his  own  mind  associa- 
ted the  place  with  just  the  slightest 
soupgon  of  ostentation,  that  kind  of  dis- 
play we  are  apt  to  fancy  pertains  to  the 
nouveau  rir/ic.  His  late  father's  name 
had  secured  for  Mr.  Kage  the  entrance 
to  good  society,  and  his  tastes,  a  little 
fastidious,  were  all  on  the  side  of  sim- 
plicity. 

He  was  agreeably  surprised.  When 
he  saw  the  good  order  and  refined 
breeding  that  prevailed  at  the  Rock  ; 
its   perfectly-appointed   rooms   and  ser- 


vice ;  its  intellectual  books  and  quiet 
ways;  the  pure  home -life  that  shone 
out  unmistakably  ;  the  simple  manners 
of  the  girls ;  and  the  lack  of  ostenta- 
tion in  any  shape,  his  conscience  smote 
him.  Luxury  there  was  certainly  at 
the  Rock ;  it  could  not  be  otherwise 
with  such  an  income  as  George  Canter- 
bury's ;  but  it  was  a  luxury  felt,  rather 
than  seen,  one  that  might  belong  to  a 
taste  as  pure  as  his  own. 

Lord  Rufort,  a  tall  man,  stiff  as  a 
poker,  with  iron-gray  hair  and  a  head 
that  bent  to  nobody,  took  in  Miss  Can- 
terbury ;  Mr.  Canterbury  took  Mrs. 
Kage.  Thomas  Kage  neither  saw  nor 
knew  how  the  rest  of  the  party  were 
paired  :  he  had  Caroline,  and  that  was 
all  he  cared  for.  Leta  got  Austin  Ru- 
fort— and  thought  herself  very  ill-used. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Rufort  considered  he  was  ; 
for  he  looked  upon  Leta  as  a  bread-and- 
butter  school-girl,  and  would  a  vast  deal 
rather  have  been  with  her  sister  Jane. 
But  Jane  was  alloted  to  Mr.  Carlton»of 
Chilling  Hall.  Miss  Canterbury  always 
exercised  her  privilege  of  ordering 
these  social  arrangements,  and  there 
might  be  no  appealing  against  her 
authority. 

Sixteen  were  at  table.  Olive,  mag- 
nificent in  her  black-net  dress  with  the 
white  rose  in  her  hair,  and  a  small  black 
circlet  inlaid  with  silver  on  her  beauti- 
ful neck,  was  at  its  head  ;  a  noble,  gra- 
cious mistress.  Mr.  Canterbury,  good- 
looking  still,  quite  young,  so  to  say, 
erect,  slender,  sat  at  its  foot  —  Mrs. 
Kage  beside  him,  her  neck  terribly  thin 
and  wiry  through  its  lace  covering. 
The  servants  were  ample  and  atten- 
tive ;  the  appointments  of  the  table 
rich  and  beautiful.  Retter  than  all,  the 
guests  amalgamated,  and  sociality  reign- 
ed. It  was  the  pleasantest  dinner-party 
Thomas  Kage  had  ever  been  present  at, 
and  for  its  brief  existence  he  was  cheat- 
ed into  forgetting  his  grief  and  the 
mother  who  had  been  so  much  to  him. 
Time  is  a  great  consoler,  and  the  sin- 
cerest  mourner  of  us  all  insensibly 
yields  to  it.  While  we  are  saying,  "  I 
shall  never  look  up  again  from  the  blow 
that  has  fallen  on  me,"  Heaven  itself 
is  gently  lifting  the  weight  from  the 
heavy  eyes. 

There  was  music  after  dinner.  So 
genial  was  the  night  that  the  large  win- 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


55 


dow  of  one  of  the  drawing-rooms  was 
flung  open,  and  some  of  them  stood  at 
it  and  looked  out  on  the  fair  scene  be- 
yond, steeped  in  moonlight.  But  Mr. 
Canterbury  came  up  to  preach  about 
the  night-air,  and  had  it  closed.  Mr. 
Annes.ley  and  his  daughter  went  home 
immediately  after  dinner.  Mrs.  Kage, 
who  was  to  have  taken  advantage  of 
the  carriage  to  leave  when  they  did, 
said  she  was  not  ready  to  go,  and  re- 
mained. 

"  Olive,"  said  Mr.  Canterbury,  sitting 
down  for  a  single  minute  by  his  daugh- 
ter, "  what  an  exceedingl}'  nice  fellow 
he.is!" 

"Who,  papa?"  Miss  Canterbury 
naturally  asked. 

"  Young  Kage.  I  liked  him  the  first 
time  I  saw  him,  that  few  minutes  at  the 
parsonage  last  January ;  I  liked  him 
more  in  London  ;  I  like  him  most  now. 
An  uncommonly  clever  man,  I  know; 
sensible  and  unaffected." 

Olive  nodded;  and  smiled  to  find  her 
father  right  for  once.  In  a  general 
way  George  Canterbury  could  no  more 
read  character  than  a  block  of  wood 
could.  She,  keen  and  sure  in  discern- 
ment, had  also  conceived  a  liking  for 
Thomas  Kage.  And  the  evening  wore 
on. 

Mr.  Carlton  offered  a  seat  in  his  car- 
riage to  Mrs.  Kage  ;  Caroline,  in  her 
wilful  way,  said  she  should  walk  home  ; 
the  night  was  too  lovely  not  to  be  en- 
joyed ;  her  cousin,  Thomas  Kage,  could 
take  care  of  her. 

Very  loveljT  indeed,  was  it  when  they 
went  out,  Caroline  with  a  shawl  on  her 
shoulders  and  nothing  on  her  head. 
Mr.  Canterbury  was  afraid  she  would 
catch  face-ache,  at  which  Caroline  burst 
out  laughing:  it  was  only  old  people 
who  had  that,  she  saucily  answered. 
Two  or  three  of  the  other  guests  walked 
also,  and  they  all  set  out  together, 
choosing  the  way  across  the  fields. 
Jane  and  Leta  Canterbury  went  with 
them  as  far  as  the  side- gate,  and 
then  ran  home  gleefully.  0,  the  happy, 
careless  days  of  youth  !  when  the  body 
fears  no  ailments,  the  mind  knows 
naught  of  trouble. 

Mrs.  Kage,  deposited  at  home  from 
Mr.  Carlton's  carriage,  heard  the  noise 
the}-  made  in  coming  over  the  field,  and 
she    opened    the    shutter    to    look    out. 


Her  eyes  were  growing  dim  of  sight 
which  she  would  not  have  acknowledg- 
ed for  the  world  ;  but  it  is  wonderful 
how  keen  dim  eyes  can  still  be  when 
swajTed  by  fear  or  self-interest.  She 
managed  to  discern — and  a  frown  rose 
to  her  face  as  she  did  so — that  though 
the  rest  were  laughing  and  talking 
loudly,  Caroline  and  Mr.  Kage  walked 
apart,  far  behind,  concerning  themselves 
only  with  one  another. 

It  was  so.  When  they  came  out, 
Caroline  went  close  to  him,  and  he  gave 
her  his  arm.  It  was  she  who  caused 
their  steps  to  linger ;  it  was  her  voice 
that  first  took  the  low,  tremulous  tone 
that  of  itself  unconsciously  betrayed 
love.  Thomas  Kage's  whole  heart  was 
bursting  with  it;  a  sweet  tumult,  in 
the  delight  of  her  presence,  of  holding 
her  on  his  arm,  was  all  aglow  within 
him.  But  he  was  of  a  strictly  honor- 
able nature,  and  made  no  sign  ;  walking 
along,  save  for  a  common -place  word 
now  and  again,  in  telling  silence. 

Mrs.  Kasre,  getting  him  by  her  that 
evening  in  Miss  Canterbury's  drawing- 
room,  had  whispered  with  affectionate 
candor  a  word  or  two  of  her  great  views 
for  her  daughter.  Caroline  was  to 
make  a  match  in  accordance  with  the 
rank  of  her  grandfather,  Lord  Gunse. 
Mrs.  Kage  was  not  sure,  she  added,  that 
the  Honorable  and  Reverend  Mr.  Ru- 
fort  had  not  cast  a  covetous  eye  on  Car- 
oline;  but  she  had  taken  care  to  give 
him  a  hint  that  her  daughter  must 
marry  wealth  as  well  as  rank.  Crafty 
Mrs.  Kage  knew  perfectly  well  that  the 
Honorable  and  Reverend  Mr.  Rufort 
thought  no  more  of  her  daughter  than 
he  did  of  her ;  but  she  deemed  it  con- 
venient to  invent  the  fable  for  the  bene- 
fit of  Thomas  Kage. 

To  what  end  ?  She  need  not  have 
feared  that  Thomas  Kage  would  speak 
of  love  to  her  daughter,  or  to  any  other 
young  lady,  until  his  position  enabled 
him  to  speak  to  some  purpose.  So  far 
as  present  prospects  went,  that  desirable 
state  of  affairs  would  be  achieved  by 
the  time  Caroline  might  expect  to  be  a 
grandmother.  He  would  have  given 
the  whole  world  for  his  circumstances 
to  be  different ;  but  the}7  were  not,  and 
he  could  not  make  them  so.  Not  under 
any  seductive  surroundings  was  Thomas 
Kage  one  to  lose  his  head  incautiously  : 


56 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


his  prudence  was  in  his  own  hands  if 
his  love  was  not,  and  Caroline's  true  in- 
terests were  as  dear  to  him  as  she  was. 
She  was  as  safe  from  avowals  with  him 
as  with  her  mother. 

But  he  had  not  the  least  objection  to 
linger  as  long  as  might  be  on  this  night 
walk — which  would  remain  on  his  mem- 
ory as  one  of  the  few  sweet  moments 
of  existence  until  time  for  him  should 
be  no  more.  The  moon,  looking  like 
pale  gold  in  the  blue  sky,  shone,  white 
and  lovely,  on  the  blades  of  early  grass, 
on  either  side  the  field-path,  on  the  bud- 
ding hedges,  on  the  stile  they  would 
have  to  cross  ;  the  air  was  balmy,  the 
night  altogether  one  of  bright,  soft  love- 
liness. That  Caroline  loved  him  Mr. 
Kage  no  longer  doubted  ;  her  manner 
showed  it  very  plainly.  He  had  fondly 
fancied  it  before  ;  he  knew  it  now  ;  and 
it  maybe  that  his  accents  took  a  tender- 
er tone  in  spite  of  himself  as  he  spoke 
to  her — a  tone  rarely  mistaken  by  its 
recipient.  A  dazzling  vision  of  future 
promise  seemed  to  rise  in  the  sky,  turn- 
ing all  things  to  gold.  Don't  blame 
him  for  it — remember  the  moments  when 
it  rose  for  you. 

"  Is  it  true  that  we  shall  not  see  you 
after  to-night  ?  "  she  asked,  breaking  a 
long  interval  of  silence. 

"  Quite  true.  I  must  get  my  business 
in  Aberton  over  betimes  to-morrow,  and 
go  back  by  the  eleven-o'clock  train." 

"  I  wonder  }7ou  do  not  manage  to  stay 
a  little  longer,"  she  went  on,  hoping  he 
would  not  hear  the  beating  of  her  heart. 
"  Perhaps  you  do  not  care  to." 

"  I  should  care  for  it  very  much,  Car- 
oline ;  but  it  is  one  of  the  things  that 
cannot  be.     Life  has  its  crosses  as  well 
as  its  hopes  and  pleasures. 
"  Have  you  crosses  ?  " 
"Yes." 

«  What  are  they  ?  " 
"  Some  of  them  would  not  particular- 
ly interest  you.     Others,  that  might,  I 
cannot  mention  now." 
"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  The  time  has  not  come..  Should  it 
ever  do  so,  }rou  shall  hear  them." 

It  is  possible  that  she  understood  him  ; 
it  is  even  possible  that  he  intended  she 
should.  There  was  no  more  said.  Caro- 
line remembered  afterwards,  with  a  burn- 
ing blush,  that  she  had  unconsciously 
pressed  his  arm  a  shade  closer  by  way  of 


answer ;  and  they  walked  the  rest  of  the 
way  in  that  delicious  conscious  silence 
which  is  more  eloquent  than  any  speech. 
"  I  must  run  back  ;  I  have  left  my 
umbrella  at  the  Rock,"  he  exclaimed  as 
they  reached  Mrs.  Kage's  gate  between 
the  laurels,  where  the  rest  of  the  party 
had  halted.  "'  In  five  minutes  I  shall  be 
back,  Caroline,  and  will  come  in  to  wish 
your  mother  good-bye." 

Caroline  went  in,  and  said  as  much  to 
Mrs.  Kage.  That  lady  received  the 
message  ungraciously.  Closing  the  half- 
shutter  she  had  held  open  to  reconnoitre, 
she  sat  down  by  the  fire  in  the  midst  of 
her  scents  and  j'astiles. 

"  He  need  not  trouble  himself  to  wish 
me  good-bye  ;  it  does  not  matter.  What 
a  blow  he  has  got !  " 

"  Who  has  ?  "  cried  Caroline. 
"  Tom  Kage.     I  said  he  looked  worn 
and  ill." 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  " 

Caroline's  breath  was  hushed  a  little 
as  she  spoke.  And  Mrs.  Kage,  flirting 
out  some  pungent  essence  from  a  patent- 
stoppered  bottle,  flirted  it  by  accident 
into  Caroline's  face. 

"  His  mother  has  not  left  him  a  shil- 
ling ;  she  has  left  it  all  to  Charlotte — 
what's  her  name  ? — I  never  can  remem- 
ber it.  Not  that  it  was  much  to  leave — 
a  few  paltry  hundreds.  He  says  he  is 
glad  Charlotte  should  have  it  instead  of 
him,  of  which  I  believe  just  as  much  as 
I  like.  Of  course  the  poor  creature 
wants  it,  with  her  crowd  of  children  and 
her  scrambling  1  fe.  It  serves  her  right. 
Sir  Charles  Kage's  daughter  (who  was 
not  connected,  you  know,  with  the  low 
woman  he  afterwards  married)  should 
have  respected  herself  better  than  to 
marry  a  man  beneath  her — one  of  those 
working  engineers." 

Caroline  Kage,  sitting  with  her  check 
in  her  hand  and  her  elbow  on  the  arm  of 
the  chair,  felt  as  if  her  heart  had  grown 
cold  suddenly. 

"  Lady  Kage  was  not  a  low  woman, 
mamma." 

"  Not  a  low  woman  !  "  softly  respond- 
ed Mrs.  Kage,  taking  up  her  smelling- 
salts.  "  My  dear  Caroline,  do  you  think 
you  know  better  than  I  ?  In  the  old 
days,  when  Maria  Carr  came  into  the 
room  in  attendance  on  the  little  Char- 
lotte, she  did  not  presume  to  sit  in  the 
presence  of  my  family — not  to  sit,   my 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


57 


dear,  unless  bade  to  do  so.  Ah,  it  was 
a  fatal  tiling,  Sir  Charles's  engaging  the 
girl  !  And  he  did  it  in  the  teeth  of  the 
most  munificent  offer  made  him  by  my 
people." 

Caroline  questioned  with  her  eyes. 

"  My  mother  went  to  him  and  offered 
to  take  the  child  into  our  house  and 
bring  her  up,  without  recompense  of 
course,  except  what  Sir  Charles  might 
choose  voluntarily  to  give.  She  urged  it 
on  him  ;  and,  by  the  way,  Charlotte 
showed  her  self-willed  temper  then  ;  for 
when  my  sister  Matilda  caught  her  to 
her  arms  and  said,  would  she  go  home 
with  her  to  be  loved  and  have  sugar- 
plums, the  ill-conditioned  little  wretch  set 
up  'a  loud  scream.  My  mother  told  Sir 
Charles  it  washer  black  frock  that  made 
her  cry,  and  Sir  Charles  said,  "  Most 
likely."  He  did  not  accept  the  offer,  and 
what  were  the  deplorable  consequences  ? 
Maria  Carr  got  into  the  house,  and  nev- 
er went  out  of  it." 

Overpowered  by  the  reminiscence,  Mrs. 
Kage  saturated  her  handkerchief  with 
eau  de  cologne  and  held  it  to  her  nose, 
glancing  furtively  over  the  cambric  at 
her  daughter. 

"  Has  Thomas  Kage  had  nothing  left 
to  him  ?  asked  Caroline,  thinking  only 
of  the  one  thing. 

"  Nothing.  She  paid  the  rent  of  the 
place  they  are  in  for  a  year,  that  he 
might  have,  at  least  for  that  time,  a  roof 
over  his  head  ;  and  Dorothy's  wages  for 
as  long,  that  she  might  see  to  him.  A 
few  of  the  old  chairs  and  tables  are  his  ; 
nothing  more.  My  dear,  I  see  how  it 
will  be,  and  he  sees  it — that  in  twent}' 
3^ears  to  come  he  will  be  no  better  oft'  than 
he  is  now,  a  poor  briefless  barrister,  toil- 
ing to  get  bread-and-cheese  and  beer,  and 
hardly  doing  it.  He  has  no  interest ;  he 
told  me  so  to-day.  How  can  he  be  likely 
to  get  on  ?  " 

Caroline  put  her  hand  for  a  moment 
upon  her  chest,  as  if  she  had  a  pain 
there. 

"  Is  this  true,  mamma  ?  " 

"  It  is  as  true  as  Heaven's  gospel," 
responded  Mrs.  Kage  ;  and  for  once  in 
her  life,  forgetting  her  languid  affectation, 
she  spoke  with  energy,  her  face  lighted 
up  with  interest.  Caroline  saw  that  it 
was  true  ;  and  with  that  miserable  mo- 
ment the  sunshine  of  her  young  life  went 
out. 


Thomas  Kage  came  back  laughing,  his 
breath  spent,  his  umbrella  in  his  hand. 
The  early  day  had  been  cloudy  ;  the 
night  might  have  turned  out  rainy,  and 
he  had  to  walk  to  Aberton.  Mr.  Canter- 
bury had  offered  a  carriage,  but  it  was 
not  accepted.  He  had  come  away  from 
the  Rock  with  a  pressing  invitation  from 
its  master  to  go  and  stay  at  it  during  the 
autumn  vacation.  This  he  told  them 
now. 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  drawled  Mrs.  Kage, 
quite  oppressed  with  languor ;  "  I'd  not 
advise  you  to  accept  it :  there'd  be  no 
enjoyment.  Olive  Canterbury  is  dictato- 
rial, and  Jane  is  buried  in  church  and 
school  business  up  to  her  elbows  ;  and 
Leta's  a  simpleton.  I'll  say  adieu  to 
you,  Thomas  Kage.  It  is  late,  and  I  am 
fatigued.  This  has  been  quite  a  day  of 
dissipation." 

She  held  out  the  tips  of  two  fingers. 
Nothing  more. 

Caroline,  asking  nobody's  leave,  went 
out  with  him  round  the  laurels  to  the 
outer  gate.  He  turned  and  took  her 
hand  when  he  passed  through  it. 

'•'  Good-bye,  Caroline,"  he  said  in  a 
low  tone  ;  "  God  bless  you  !  " 

Her  heart  was  sore  with  its  pain  ;  she 
struggled  with  it  for  an  instant  and 
burst  into  tears. 

He  was  intensely  surprised.  Perhaps, 
had  he  said  a  word  then  of  the  love  and 
hope  that  so  yearned  for  utterance,  their 
lives  might  have  been  widely  different, 
and  the  course  of  events  so  changed, 
that  the  great  trouble  lying  in  the 
womb  of  the  future,  and  which  was  des- 
tined to  overshadow  one  of  them  fatally, 
the  other  in  a  degree,  had  never  been 
led  up  to. 

"  Good-bye,  Thomas — good-bye." 

The  words,  spoken  with  a  wail  of  an- 
guish, came  forth  as  abruptly  as  the 
tears  had  done.  She  wrenched  her 
hand  from  his,  after  pressing  his  ringers 
almost  to  pain,  shot  away  rapidly  in- 
doors, and  he  heard  the  bolt  slipped. 

"  Good-night,  mamma,"  Caroline  call- 
ed out  as  she  passed  the  sitting-room  ; 
"  I'm  going  to  bed." 

Forth  from  the  open  window  she  lean- 
ed in  her  dinner-dress,  the  moonlight 
playing  on  her  white  shoulders,  on  the 
tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

Caroline  had  the  sense  to  look  matters 
in  the  face  and  judge  them  truly.     She 


58 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


knew  that  she  never  could  he  a  poor 
man's  wife,  unless  she  would  become  a 
wretched,  heartless  woman,  like  her 
mother — worried  in  private,  made  up  of 
small  affectations  in  public,  discontented 
and  false  always.  She  loved  Thomas 
Kage  with  that  passionate  love  that  can 
touch  the  heart  bat  once  ;  but  she  knew 
that  she  must  give  him  up,  and  her 
heart  half  broke  with  its  pain.  She 
watched  him  across  the  open  fields 
towards  Aberton,  onh/  the  faintest  speck 
in  the  distance  now;  he  was  all  but  out 
of  sight  ;  and  her  young  face  grew  wild 
with  anguish,  and  her  covetous  eyes 
were  strained  through  their  blinding 
tears  ;  and  in  an  excess  of  despair  she 
flung  her  hands  out  imploringly. 

"  Farewell,  Thomas,  my  best-beloved  ! 
— farewell  forever !" 

She  got  to  sleep  towards  morning,  and 
c're.imt  of  falling  into  ten  thousand 
a-j'ear,  and  of  going  to  be  happy  with 
Thomas  Kage  ;  and  for  some  few  mo- 
ments after  waking  the  dream  held  the 
semblance  of  a  blessed  reality.  A  faint 
cry — than  which  no  moan  contained  ever 
deeper  anguish — supervened.  The  truth 
had  dawned  on  Caroline  Kage. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ENTERING    ON    A    NEW    HOME. 

Summer  weather  had  come  in,  and 
the  heat  and  the  dust  of  a  windy  day 
in  early  June  filled  the  London  streets. 
The  pavements  were  scorched  below,  the 
gusts  reigned  above  ;  it  was  a  relief  to 
Thomas  Kage  when  he  turned  into  the 
shelter  of  one  of  the  railway-stations,  to 
meet  a  train  that  came  from  the  direc- 
tion of  Wales. 

Five  minutes,  and  it  steamed  in.  It 
had  left  Aberton  in  the  morning,  and 
the  journey  had  been  uneventful.  Mr. 
Kage  regarded  each  first-class  carriage 
attentively  as  it  slowly  passed,  and  saw 
a  young  lady  in  deep  mourning  looking 
from  the  window  of  one.  A  cordial 
smile  of  greeting  lighted  up  his  eyes  as 
he  raised  his  hat  to  her  in  recognition. 

Death  had  been  finding  its  way  to 
Chilling.  The  good  old  Rector,  Philip 
Annesley,  had  not  been  mistaken  in  say- 
ing that  his  apparently-renewed  lease  of 


life  was  a  deceptive  one,  like  unto  a  can- 
dle that  shoots  up  a  bright  spark  before 
going  out.  Almost  close  upon  the  fes- 
tivities of  that  Easter  Mondaj^,  he  had 
failed  again,  and  Death  came  in  to  claim 
its  own. 

The  value  of  the  living  was  but  mod- 
erate—  barel}'- three  hundred  a-year  — 
and  Mr.  Annesley  for  some  ten  years 
past  had  to  keep  a  curate,  and  pay  him 
out  of  it,  besides  other  expenses.  Until 
recently  a  sick  sister  had  been  partly  de- 
pendent on  him  ;  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
transmitting  her  ten  pounds  every  quar- 
ter. The  renovations  to  the  parsonage- 
house — which  he  had  to  make — had  cost 
a  great  deal  :  he  was  very  charitable  ; 
and  altogether  his  income  had  run  awav. 
Nevertheless,  pleuty  of  people  were  found 
to  say  he  ought  to  have  saved  more, 
when  it  was  heard  how  very  slender  a 
provision  was  left  for  his  daughter. 

Not  a  provision  at  all,  as  the  world 
would  count  it.  When  all  resources 
were  gathered  together,  including  the 
sum  paid  for  the  furniture  by  the  new 
Rector,  it  was  found  that  she  would  have 
about  thirty  pounds  a-year.  Not  a  frac- 
tion more :  if  anything,  rather  less. 
She  had  been  invited  to  take  up  her 
abode  temporarily  with  some  relatives  in 
London,  until — to  use  the  expression  of 
the  lady  inviting  her  —  she  could  turn 
herself  round;  which,  of  course,  meant, 
secure  some  suitable  employment. 

The  new  Rector  appointed  to  the  liv- 
ing of  Chilling  was  the  Honorable  and 
Reverend  Austin  Rufort.  .It  had  been 
expected  that  he  would  be  ;  and,  for  a 
wonder,  eveiybody  was  satisfied.  Mr. 
Rufort  did  not  wish  to  hurry  Miss  An- 
nesley from  her  home  :  had  she  chosen 
to  remain  in  it  for  a  twelvemonth  she 
had  been  welcome ;  but  when  once 
things  were  settled,  she  thought  it  well 
to  leave.  Mr.  Annesley  had  been  dead 
about  six  weeks  then.  Accepting  the 
invitation  offered  to  her,  she  fixed  the 
day  of  her  journey  to  London,  and 
Thomas  Kage  had  been  solicited  to  re- 
ceive her  at  the  station. 

"  How  kind  it  is  of  you  to  come  and 
meet  me  !  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  glad  ac- 
cent.     "  How  very  kind  !  " 

Expecting  to  meet  none  but  strangers, 
half  afraid  of  encountering  the  bustle  of 
the  great  Babel,  the  sight  of  a  face  she 
knew  struck  upon  her  with  joyous  sur- 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


59 


prise,  with  more  importance  in  fact  than 
the  slight  circumstance  deserved.  To 
the  low-spirited  girl,  full  of  douhts  and 
shrinking,  it  really  had  the  appearance 
of  a  fortunate  omen. 

"  Mrs.  Anneslej7  requested  me  to 
come  ;  she  is  not  well  herself,  and  her 
daughter  is  scarcely  old  enough  to  be 
trusted  at  the  station.  Perhaps  I  might 
say  not  steady  enough,"  he  added  with 
a  good-natured  smile,  as  the}'  walked  to- 
gether along  the  platform,  and  took  up 
their  standing  to  see  the  luggage  thrown 
out  of  the  van. 

Sarah  smiled  too.  "I  have  heard 
Mrs.  Dunn  call  her  flight}'." 

"  Precisely  so.  She  is  but  a  young 
girl,  full  of  life  and  merriment.  Mrs. 
Annesley,  with  her  ill -health,  is  too 
grave  a  companion  for  her." 

"  Mrs.  Annesley  has  very  ill-health, 
has  she  not  ?  " 

"  She  seems  to  be  always  ailing.  She 
has  nervous  headaches,  for  one  thing. 
Just  now  she  is  recovering  from  a  severe 
attack  of  bronchitis/' 

"  Are  you  very  intimate  with  them  ?  " 

"  Not  very.  I  happened  to  call  last 
evening.  Mrs.  Annesley  had  been  re- 
gretting that  she  had  no  one  but  a  ser- 
vant to  send  here  to  meet  you,  and  I 
said  perhaps  I  should  do  to  come." 

"  I  would  rather  have  seen  your  face 
than  anyone's,"  spoke  Sarah  with  simple 
truth.  "  You  do  not  know  how  much  I 
dread  strangers." 

"  Is  Mrs.  Annesley  quite  a  stranger  to 
you  ?  " 

"  Veiy  nearly  so.  Ten  years  ago  my 
dear  father  and  I  were  in  London  for 
five  days,  and  stayed  at  their  house — Mr. 
Annesle}7  was  alive  then — and  the  fol- 
lowing summer  they  came  to  us  for  a 
month  at  Chilling,  with  the  little  girl — 
a  fair,  sweet  child  of  about  seven.  That 
is  all  the  acquaintance  I  have  had  with 
them  ;  we  have  not  even  corresponded, 
save  on  any  extraordinary  occasion  ;  and 
I  think  it  is  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Annesley 
to  invite  me  now." 

"  She  could  do  no  less,"  said  Thomas 
Kage.  "  Your  father  and  her  husband 
were  brothers." 

"  Only  half-brothers.  Mr.  James  An- 
nesley was  twenty  years  younger  than 
papa,  ar.d  they  were  not  very  cordial  with 
each  other.  My  dear  father  thought  he 
had  been  much  wronged  in  regard  to  the 


family  property,  which  was  left  entirely 
to  Mr.  James  Annesley  :  but  it  does  not 
matter  to  recall  that  now.  My  good  fa- 
ther put  away  the  grievance  from  his 
heart  long  and  long  ago." 

"  Had  Mrs.  Annesley  not  invited  you 
to  stay  with  her,  Mrs.  Garston  would," 
he  remarked.  "  I  think  she  resents  hav- 
ing been  forestalled  in  it." 

"  There's  my  luggage  !  "  exclaimed 
Sarah.  "Box  the  first  coming  out 
now.-" 

"  How  many  boxes  have  j7ou  ?  " 

"  Two,  and  a  small  one.  Mr.  Rufort 
kindly  said  I  might  leave  as  much  lum- 
ber as  I  liked  at  home  until  I  saw  what 
my  plans  would  be.  Is  it  not  strange, 
Mr.  Kage,  that  I  and  Lydia  Dunn 
should  cross  each  other  ?  " 

"Cross  each  other!"  he  repeated,  at 
a  loss  to  understand  what  she  meant. 

"  Don't  you  know  ? — Mrs.  Dunn  is 
going  down  to  the  Rock  to-day  on  a  long 
visit.  I  am  so  sorry.  Had  she  been  in 
London,  the  great  town  might  have 
seemed  less  strange  to  me.  She  is  a 
widow  now,  you  are  aware  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  these  four  or  five  months  past." 

Not  until  they  were  seated  in  the  cab 
did  Thomas  Kage  speak  of  the  loss  she 
had  sustained,  and  of  his  deep  sympathy 
with  it ;  and  then  only  by  a  word  or  two. 
Those  who  feel  the  deepest  say  the  least. 
She  understood  him,  and  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes  :  not  very  long  ago  he  had 
gone  through  the  same  sorrow  and  suf- 
fering. 

Mrs.  Anneslej',  the  widow,  lived 
in  Paradise-terrace.  Fine  substantial 
houses,  but  not  to  be  compared  to  the 
mansions  in  the  grand  square  adjoining 
— Paradise-square.  Thomas  Kage  ac- 
companied her  into  the  house,  and  intro- 
duced her  to  its  mistress,  who  left  the 
fireside  and  an  easy-chair  to  receive  her. 

She  was  four-aud-fifty  years  of  age, 
and  she  looked  four-and-sixty.  A  cold 
silent  woman,  with  gray  hair,  straight 
black  e}Tebrows,  and  a  severe  expression 
of  face.  Her  heart  was  warmer  than  her 
manner,  but  neither  would  have  set  the 
Thames  on  fire  ;  and  she  was  well-mean- 
ing, wishing  to  do  her  duty  by  all.  She 
was  apt  to  tell  people,  if  they  inquired, 
that  she  never  enjoyed  a  day's  health  : 
what  with  her  ailments  of  one  kind  and 
another,  and  the  giving  way  to  them,  she 
perhaps  never  did.      Recently  she  had 


60 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


been  really  ill,  and  would  not  feel  recov- 
ered for  a  long  time. 

Mrs.  Annesley  welcomed  Sarah,  her 
niece  one  degree  removed  (if  it  may  be 
called  so)  with  as  much  cordialit}'  as  a 
woman  of  her  cold  and  reserved  nature 
could.  She  kissed  her  cheek,  and  said 
she  was  welcome.  Sarah  caught  at  the 
arm  of  Thomas  Kage  :  for  a  momentary 
faintness,  quite  unusual,  stole  over  her. 
To  one  who  has  had  a  happy  and  beloved 
home  of  her  own,  the  entering  that  of  a 
stranger  is  a  bitter  heart-sickness. 

Years  and  years  ago — more  than  you, 
my  reader,  would  care  to  say  you  can  look 
back  to — Philip  Anneslpj,  a  3'oung  man 
keeping  his  first  term  at  the  Cambridge 
University,  heard  with  intense  surprise 
and  some  natural  shock,  that  his  father 
had  married  again-.  He  had  deemed  that 
he  and  his  sister  were  all-in-all  to  their 
father  ;  hut,  as  it  seemed,  he  was  mistak- 
en. The  new  wife  gained  full  ascend- 
ency ;  later  she  had  one  son  born  :  and 
when  death,  some  twenty  years  after- 
wards, took  the  old  man,  her  husband,  it 
was  discovered  that  he  had  bequeathed 
the  whole  of  his  property  to  her,  uncon- 
ditionally. In  her  turn  she  bequeathed 
it  to  her  own  son  James;  ignoring  Phil- 
ip, then  the  incumbent  of  Chilling  ;  ig- 
noring the  daughter,  Mar)-,  who  had  lived 
at  home  with  her. 

Had  James  Anneslej?  been  a  just  and 
right-feeling  man,  he  would  at  once  have 
divided  the  property  into  three  shares, 
giving  one  each  to  his  half-brother  and 
sister.  He  did  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  he 
kept  the  whole;  and  Philip  in  his  heart 
resented  it.  Mary  found  a  home  with 
her  brother  Philip  at  Chilling,  who  was 
still  a  single  man,  and  remained  so  for 
some  years  after  that.  When  he  did 
marry,  Mary  left  him  ;  James  wanted  her 
then,  for  he  had  married,  and  been  left  a 
widower  Witli  one  little  boy.  Later  by 
ever  so  many  years,  James  married 
again,  the  present  Mrs.  Annesley,  now 
standing  up  to  receive  Sarah  and  Mr. 
Kage,  and  she  had  one  daughter. 

1  hope  the  account  has  been  clear. 
With  so  many  people  and  interests  and 
marriages .  to  speak  of,  ideas  are  apt  to 
get  a  little  complicated.  James  Annes- 
ley, when  he  died,  did  not  do  as  his  father 
had  done — leave  all  he  had  to  his  wife 
unconditionally.  The  interest  was  to  he 
hers  for  her   life — a  handsome  income: 


at  her  death  it  would  go  to  the  two 
children,  but  not  equally  :  his  son  by  his 
first  wife' would  take  the  larger  share,  the 
young  girl  the  smaller.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Annesley  felt  aggrieved  at  this,  but  she 
had  no  power  to  remedy  it.  Old  Mrs. 
Garston,  rapping  her  stick  with  ardor, 
told  her  to  her  face  it  was  the  only  just 
thing  James  Annesley  ever  did.  The 
son,  Walter  Annesley,  had  been  sent  to 
the  West  Indies  as  clerk  in  a  merchant's 
house  there;  he  was  getting  on  well,  was 
married,  and  had  a  prospect,  it  was  un- 
derstood, of  a  junior  partnership. 

Sarah  Annesley,  resolutely  rallying 
from  the  passing  sensation  of  faintness 
— for  there  lived  not  a  young  woman  in 
the  world  less  willing  to  give  way  than 
she — turned  from  Mr.  Kage  to  meet  the 
young  girl  who  had  come  up  and  waited. 
A  bright  fairy  of  seventeen,  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  fair  hair  that  she  chose  to  wear 
in  a  shower  of  drooping  curls,  laughing 
blue  eyes,  and  saucy  features.  She  had 
no  regular  beauty  whatever,  only  the 
great  charm  that  }'Outh  and  a  kind  of 
randomly-wild  carlessness  sometimes  im- 
part. The  hair  was  beautiful  ;  the 
laughing  light-blue  ej'es  were  beautiful  ; 
and  there  the  boasting  ended.  The  nose 
was  small  and  turned  up  to  the  skies  ; 
the  very  pointed  chin  was  one  of  the  most 
impertinent  ever  seen.  She  was  very 
little,  not  of  the  smallest  account  to  look 
at,  impudent  to  everybody  about  her  ex- 
cept her  mother,  and  saucy  to  the  rest  of 
the  world.  But  these  saucy,  piquant 
women  often  sway  man  with  an  iron 
hand,  and  render  him  helpless. 

Sax*ah  kissed  her  involuntarily,  and 
then  held  her  at  arm's  length,  regarding 
her  with  quite  a  fond  expression.  The 
child  (she  quite  looked  like  one)  wore  a 
pretty  black  silk,  with  a  white-lace  edg- 
ing on  her  neck,  and  black  ribbons  fall- 
ing amidst  her  fair  hair. 

"  Can  this  be  little  Belle  ?     But  per- 
haps I  ought  not  to  call  her  Belle  now  Y  " 
■'  Belle  always,"  spoke  Mrs.  Annesley. 
"  Annabel    only    when    I    am    seriously 
angry  with  her." 

"  Is  that  often  ?  "  put  in  Mr.  Kage. 
Miss  Belle,  in  answer  to  his  question 
and  smile,  gave  him  a  sharp  flirting  rap 
with  her  jet  chain.  But  an  impercepti- 
ble sigh  broke  from  Mrs.  Annesley  ;  it 
seemed  to  imply  that  she  found  her 
daughter  more  troublesome  than  perhaps 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


61 


Mr.  Kage  might  have  given  credit  for. 
It  appeared  nearly  impossible  to  believe 
that  that  careless,  laughing,  blue-eyed 
girl  could  be  the  daughter  of  the  staid, 
stony,  dark-browed  woman  :  the  one  so 
redolent  of  light-hearted  gaiety,  the  oth- 
er seeming  never  to  have  known  it. 
Between  thirty  and  forty  when  she  mar- 
ried, Mrs.  Annedey  had  been  already  set 
down  as  an  "old  maid"  by  the  generous 
world  ;  she  had  certainty  been  stiff  and 
cold  as  any  old  maid  can  be  ;  and  though 
the  reproach  was  lifted  from  her,  she  re- 
mained stiff  to  the  end.  But  the  fault 
— it  has  just  been  said  so — lay  in  man- 
ner more  than  in  heart. 

"  Will  you  show  your  cousin  to  her 
room,  Belle?"  spoke  Mrs.  Annesley. 
"  Harriet  will  be  there  waiting,  no 
doubt." 

The  first  thing  Miss  Belle  did  when 
she  got  outside  the  door  was  to  plant  her- 
self at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  impeding 
further  progress,  and  stare  into  her  cous- 
in's face. 

"  I  remember  you  quite  well  ;  I  re- 
member lots  of  things  when  I  was  young- 
er than  that;  but  you  are  looking  ever 
so  much  older." 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  said  Sarah.  "  It 
is  ten  years  ago." 

"  Good  gracious  !  You  must  be  get- 
ting an  old  woman." 

"  Getting  on  that  way.  I  shall  be 
thirty  in  three  yeai's." 

"  How  dreadful !  When  I  get  thirty  it 
will  be  all  over,  for  I'd  as  soon  be  sixty 
at  once.  What  I  want  to  say  is  this — 
you  are  not  going  to  watch  me  ?" 

"  To  watch  you  ?  "  repeated  Sarah,  in 
a  questioning  tone. 

"  Yes,  to  watch  me  ;  to  be  a  spy  upon 
me.  Because,  if  you  are,  I'll  not  stand 
it," 

"  My  dear  child,  I  really  do  not  know 
what  you  mean." 

"  Yesterday,  when  mamma  was  talk- 
ing about  my  wildness,  she  said  how 
glad  she  was  you  were  coming,  for  she 
should  ask  you  to  look  after  me,  and  re- 
port to  her  all  you  saw  amiss.  0,  you 
can't  imagine  what  it  is  at  home  ;  she's 
like  an  old  lady-abbess  looking  after  a 
flock  of  nuns.  If  my  bedroom  is  in  a 
mess,  she  groans  ;  if  1  buy  a  sash  with- 
out first  asking  her,  she  sighs,  and  says 
I'm  on  the  high-road  to  ruin.  Perhaps 
I  should  be  if  I  had  an  old  duenna  at 


my  heels  alwaj's  to  report  ill  of  me  ;  I'm 
sure  I'd  spend  a  crown  then  where  I  now 
spend  half  one.  The  other  day  she 
•nearly  fainted  because  she  came  into  the 
study  and  found  all  my  oil-paints  spilt 
on  the  carpet.  You  wont  tell  tales  of  me, 
will  you  ?  " 

"No;  certainly  not." 

"  That  is  a  promise  ? "  said  Miss 
Belle,  with  a  stamp  of  her  pretty  foot. 

"It  is  ;  and  I  will  keep  it  faithfully. 
There's  the  seal  of  it,  Belle." 

Sarah  bent  forward  and  kissed  the 
bright  young  face  upturned  to  hers. 
Belle  was  a  very  siren  ;  and  she  had  some 
of  a  siren's  attributes,  besides  fascina- 
tion. 

Having  seen  Miss  Annesley  safely 
housed,  Thomas  Kage  took  his  departure 
for  Mrs.  Garston's.  He  was  making  the 
afternoon  into  a  kind  of  holiday,  and  did 
not  go  back  to  his  chambers :  but  it  was 
getting  late  now.  Mrs.  Garston  had 
charged  him  to  come  and  inform  her  all 
about  Miss  Annesley's  arrival  ;  and 
Thomas  Kage,  who  had  been  in  the  hab- 
it of  obeying  her  for  many  years  almost 
as  he  did  his  mother,  insensibly  did  it 
more  than  ever  now  that  that  mother 
was  gone. 

A  stylish  open  vehicle  on  two  wheels, 
with  a  stylish  tiger  taking  care  of  the 
horse,  stood  before  the  gate  as  he  reach- 
ed it.  Mr.  Kage  wondered  whose  they 
were,  when  the  appearance  of  Captain 
Dawkes,  jauntily  treading  the  gravel- 
path,  solved  the  problem.  The  gallant 
Captain  had  been  making  a  call  on  the 
lady,  whom  he  rather  facetiously  styled 
the  "ancient  party"  to  his  military 
friends.  Not  staying  to  shake  hands 
with  Mr.  Kage,  he  ascended  to  his  seat 
with  a  patronising  nod,  touched  the 
horse,  and  dashed  away,  his  purple  whis- 
kers more  silken  than  ever,  his  teeth 
whiter,  his  cheeks  and  himself  altogeth- 
er blooming. 

As  Mr.  Kage  passed  in  at  the  garden- 
gate,  Mrs.  Garston  met  him  in  the  path- 
way. On  sunny  days  she  was  fond  of 
being  out  of  doors,  and  walked  about  the 
sheltered  garden  almost  as  firmly  as  she 
did  twenty  years  before,  never  accepting 
help  except  from  her  stick,  planted  vig- 
orously on  the  ground  with  every  step 
she  took.  Therefore  Thomas  Kage  did 
not  offer  his  arm,  but;  simply  turned 
with    her   and   kept  by    her   side.     He 


62 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


was  in  deep  mourning  still ;  the  old  la- 
dy wore  an  enormous  sun-bonnet  of  gray 
silk,  and  a  white  lama  shawl. 

"  Did  you  see  that  turn-out  ?  "  were 
the  first  words  she  addressed  to  him,  in 
allusion  to  the  equipage  just  gone  away  : 
and,  by  the  tone,  Thomas  knew  that  it, 
or  something  else,  had  displeased  her. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  The  horse  is  a 
high-mettled  one  ;  Captain  Dawkes  must 
take  care  of  him  in  the  more  crowded 
streets." 

Captain  Dawkes  was  in  feather  again. 
Mrs.  Garston  had  prevailed  upon  herself 
to  pay  his  debts  and  set  him  free.  It 
was  some  three  or  four  months  ago  now. 
At  temporary  ease  in  the  world,  he  lived 
like  a  man  of  fortune,  and  paid  visits  to 
Mrs.  Garston  as  often  as  he  could  force 
himself  to  the  infliction. 

"  He  has  begun  again." 

The  remark  was  given  abruptly,  and 
Thomas  Kage,  whose  thoughts  had  gone 
roving  to  other  matters,  really  did  not 
catch  its  thread. 

"  Begun  what,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Begun  what  ?  Why,  to  make  more 
debts,"  irascibly  returned  Mrs.  Garston. 
"  I'm  speaking  of  Barby  Dawkes.  He 
has  as  much  cause  to  set  up  tliiffc  fine 
tandem  as  I  have  to  set  up  a  dandy- 
horse.  Where's  the  use  of  your  laugh- 
ing, Thomas  Kage  ?  " 

He  was  biting  his  lip,  not  to  hide  the 
smile — for  he  could  but  be  open  in  all 
he  did — but  to  prevent  its  going  on  to  a 
laugh.  Mrs.  Garston  would  look  curious 
on  a  dand}'-horse. 

"It  is  not  a  tandem,  ma'am." 

"  It  is  a  tandem  !  Why  do  you  con- 
tradict ?  It's  a  tandem  that  he  has  set 
up  ;  he  told  me  so  to  my  face.  There 
may  be  one  horse  in  the  shafts  to-da_y, 
but  he  puts  another  on  at  times,  and  al- 
ways in  the  country.  I  told  him  he'd 
look  more  consistent  in  a  wheelbarrow 
drawn  by  two  grey  jackasses." 

"  If  Captain  Dawkes  is  tolerably  cau- 
tious in  other  matters,  he  can  afford  to 
keep  two  horses,"  spoke  Mr.  Kage,  who 
would  willingly  have  smoothed  away  dis- 
pleasure from  his  worst  enemy. 

"  If  !  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Barby 
Dawkes  being  cautious  ?  I  set  him  free 
with  the  world  last'  March.  This  is 
June  ;  and  I'd  lay  you  the  worth  of  these 
two  houses,  yours  and  mine  that  he  has 
already  made  a  string  of  debts  a  yard 
long  :  now,  then,  Thomas  Kage  ! " 


Thomas  Kage  strolled  on  the  lawn  by 
the  old  lady's  side  in  silence.  He 
thought  it  quite  probable  -j that  the  al- 
ready-contracted debts  might  be  two 
yards  long,  instead  of  one  ;  but  he  would 
not  say  so. 

"  I  told  Barby  what  it  would  be.  I 
told  Keziah  that  my  setting  him  free,  if 
I  did  do  it,  would  only  be  the  signal  for 
him  to  begin  again,  and  run  up  fresh  li- 
abilites  ;  and  he  is  doing  it.  Don't  tell 
me!" 

"  I  suppose  he  says  he  is  not  ?  " 

"  He'd  not  sa}r  he  is  to  me,  be  yo\\  sure 
of  that ;  but  I  have  warned  him,  and  take 
you  notice  of  it,  Thomas  Kage.  When 
he  stood  up  before  me  smiling,  not  five 
minutes  ago,  I  warned  him  as  plainly  as 
words  can  do  it.  '  Run  'em  up,'  I  said 
to  him,  '  run  up  a  cartload  of  'em,  if  you 
choose,  Barby  Dawkes  ;  but  you  may  find 
it  much  harder  to  get  me  to  discharge 
'em  than  you  have  done.'  Whatever 
comes  of  it,  he  can't  sa}'  I  didn't  warn 
him.     There  !   I  shall  sit  down." 

She  took  her  seat  on  a  green  bench 
under  a  fine  old  spreading  tree.  Mr. 
Kage  placed  himself  by  her,  and  began 
speaking  of  the  arrival  of  Miss  Annesley 
from  Chilling.  It  was  rather  a  sore 
subject  with  Mrs.  Garston  :  first,  because 
Sarah  Annesley  had  been  left  without 
provision  ;  and  secondly,  that  she  had 
been  forestalled  by  Mrs.  Annesley  in  the 
invitation  to  stay  in  London. 

"  Thirty  pounds  a  year,  perhaps  under 
it  !  "  commented  the  old  lady,  striking 
her  stick  sharply  on  the  soft  grass. 
"  Philip  Annesley  had  three  hundred 
a-year,  and  a  house  to  live  in,  and  might 
have  done  better  for  her.  We  were 
playfellows  together  when  we  were  chil- 
dren, he  and  I ;  but  I  was  the  elder  by 
some  five  3~ears.  I  remember  once  a 
mad  cow  ran  after  us,  and  we  leaped  a 
dwarf  wall,  and  scrambled  through  a 
thick  blackberry-hedge.  You'd  not  think 
it  now." 

"  You  could  not  do  it  now,"  was  his 
answer. 

"  I  thought  Philip  would  have  had 
more  sense  ;  his  brains  were  sharp  as 
a  boy.  Nobody  should  live  up  to  their 
income  if  they've  children  to  provide 
for ;  mark  you  that,  Thomas  Kage. 
But  I  hope  it  will  be  a  long  time  before 
3tou  put  yourself  in  the  way  of  having 
any." 

A   very   conscious    flush    crossed    his 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


63 


cheek.  Within  the  last  clay  or  two  a 
possible  view  of  advancement  had  been 
laid  before  him  ;  and,  if  he  accepted  it — 
and  Caroline  Kage — 

"I  wonder  she  could  stomach  that  in- 
vitation of  Mrs.  Annesley's!"  came  the 
interruption  to  his  thoughts  in  the  quaint 
language  of  the  old  lady,  which  belonged 
to  a  bygone  day.  "I  do  ;  and  I  don't 
think  her  father  would  have  liked  her  to, 
neither.  If  ever  man  was  ill-used 
among  'em,  he  was.  Philip  Annesley 
was  brought  up  to  think  he'd  succeed  to 
the  half  of  his  father's  property,  and 
his  sister  to  the  other  half.  Old  Annes- 
ley marries  again,  drivels  on  for  twenty 
years  in  his  tight  keeping  under  his  new 
wife's  thumb,  and  then  dies  and  leaves 
every  shilling  to  her  son  James.  It's 
all  very  well  to  say  Philip  forgave  'em, 
as  a  good  clergyman  and  Christian 
should;  but  I'll 'be  whipped  if  he  must 
not  have  been  an  uncommon  good  one  to 
do  it." 

"  I  think  he  was  that,  Mrs.  G-arston." 
"I  don't  say  the  present  Mrs.  Annes- 
ley, James's  widow,  had  any  hand  in  the 
injustice ;  she  didn't  know  'em  at  the 
time  ;  but  she  became  James's  wife  after- 
wards, and  that  would  have  been  enough 
to  make  some  people  resent  it  on  her  as 
belonging  to  them.  She  enjo}rs  the  mon- 
ey too — seven  hundred  a-year,  Thom- 
as." 

"  Is  it  so  much  as  that  ?  " 
"  It  is  that  in  hard  income,  my  dear  ; 
and  there  was  furniture,  and  plate,  and 
accumulated  money  besides.  James  did 
not  make  quite  so  unjust  a  will  as  his 
wretched  old  father:  he  left  his  wife 
a  life-interest  only ;  at  her  death  the 
son  in  the  West  Indies  gets  four  hun- 
dred a-year  of  it;  the  girl  three;  the 
furniture  and  things  to  go  as  Mrs.  An- 
nesley chooses.  And  we  need  not  spec- 
ulate upon  who'll  get  that,  consider- 
ing the  girl  is  her  daughter,  the  young 
man  only  her  step -son.  But  James 
never  remembered  the  suppressed  claims 
of  the  Philip  Annesleys  ;  and  I  say  I'd 
not  have -accepted  an  invitation  from  any 
of  the  lot,  had  I  been  Philip's  daughter. 
What  does  she  say  about  those  Kages?" 
The  transition  of  subject  was  abrupt. 
-Thomas,  who  had  been  sitting  in  a  rev- 
erie, his  eyes  bent  on  the  grass,  hearing, 
and  not  hearing,  looked  up. 
"  What  Kages,  ma'am  ?  " 


Mrs.  Garston  lifted  her  stick  as  if  she 
had  a  mind  to  strike  him,  bringing  it 
down  on  the  grass  with  a  thump. 

"  If  you  get  in  the  habit  of  useless 
cavilling,  Thomas  Kage,  you'll  hear  a 
bit  of  my  mind.  I  mean  those  Kages 
down  at  Chilling — the  woman  with  the 
affectation  and  the  smelling-bottles.  Her 
soft  voice  is  as  false  as  Barby  Dawkes's 
smile  when  he  tells  me  he  is  living  with- 
in his  income.  I  knew  her  as  Caroline 
Gunse,  and  what  she  was ;  and  her 
daughter  takes  after  her.  Did  I  ever 
know  any  other  Kages,  pray,  but  them, 
except  3rourself  and  your  dear  mother  ? 
Do  you  know  any  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Very  well,  then,  why  need  you  ask 
me  what  Kages  ?  What  does  Sarah 
Annesle^y  say  about  them  ?  " 

"  She  said  nothing  to  me,  except  that 
they  are  well.  Miss  Annesley  will  come 
and  see  you  herself  to-morrow.  She  is 
vexed  at  one  thing — that  Mrs.  Dunn 
should  have  gone  down  home  just  at 
this  time,  and  regrets  her  absence  very 
much." 

"A  fine  thing  she  is  to  regret!" 
scornfully  spoke  Mrs.  Garston. 

"  I  fancy  Miss  Aunesley  was  particu- 
larly intimate  with  her  when  she  was 
Lydia  Canterbury  ;  more  so  than  with 
the  other  sisters." 

"  Then  why  could  not  Lydia  Dunn 
have  put  off  her  visit  home  for  a  week, 
and  stayed  here  to  receive  her?"  sensi- 
bly spoke  Mrs.  Garston.  "  Perhaps  she 
cares  for  Lydia  Dunn  more  than  L)'dia 
Dunn  cares  for  her.  My  opinion  is,  if 
you  wish  to  know  it,  that  Mrs.  L\7dia 
Dunn  never  cared  for  anybody  but  her 
own  blessed  self.  Now,  then  !  and  you 
may  tell  Philip  Annesley's  daughter  that 
I  sa3r  it.  Where  are  you  going,  Thom- 
as ?  " 

"  Home." 

"  You  are  not ;  you  are  going  to  dine 
with  me.  Don't  you  know  that  you  are 
worth  fifty  thousand  of  such  men  as 
Barnaby  Dawkes  ?  " 

He  smiled,  and  took  out  his  watch. 
It  wanted  half-an-hour  to  her  usual  din- 
ner-hour. Mrs.  Garston's  invitations 
were  commands,  and  might  not  be  reject- 
ed when  it  was  possible  to  accede  to 
them. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  ;  "  I  will  come 
back  by  six ;  but  I  expect  a  letter  will 


64 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


be  waiting  for  me  at  home,  and  I  may 
have  to  write  an  answer  to  it." 

It  was  there.  When  he  got  home, 
the  letter  was  staring  him  in  the  face. 
He  opened  it,  not  eagerly,  hut  slowly  and 
thoughtfully,  as  if  it  were  big  with  some 
momentous  fate  that  he  felt  half-afraid  to 
read  of. 

A  proposition  had  been  made  to 
Thomas  Kage  to  go  out  to  India.  An 
influential  friend,  the  Earl  of  Elster,  had 
obtained  the  promise  of  an  appointment 
for  him  there,  and  Mr.  Kage  was  expect- 
ing the  bona-fide  offer  of  it  daily.  He 
thought  perhaps  this  letter  contained  it; 
but  he  found  he  was  mistaken,  that  he 
would  have  to  wait  yet  for  some  days. 
Holding  the  letter  open  still  when  read, 
for  it  must  be  replied  to,  he  sat  in  doubt 
and  deep  reflection. 

Not  in  doubt  as  to  whether  the  offer 
would  come — of  that  he  was  as  sure  as 
he  could  be  ;  but  in  doubt  whether  or 
not  to  accept  it  when  it  came.  He  had 
not  made  up  his  mind.  In  good  truth, 
lie  was  advancing  so  slowly  in  his  pro- 
fession— the  case  frequently  with  young 
barristers — that  he  had  grown  disheart- 
ened. He  got  enough  to  keep  him  and 
his  moderate  household  in  necessaries  ; 
and  Lady  Kage,  as  may  be  remembered, 
had  provided  for  the  year's  rent ;  but  of 
prospects  he  seemed  to  have  none.  The 
salary  of  the  appointment  iu  India  would 
commence  at  seven  hundred  a-year,  and 
go  on  increasing. 

Had  there  been  no  one  in  the  ques- 
tion but  himself,  he  would  not  have  hes- 
itated one  moment  over  the  decision — to 
reject  it.  To  go  to  India,  or  to  any  other 
country,  for  an  indefinite  number  of 
years,  would  seem  to  him  no  better  than 
banishment.  Some  men  like  to  go  a- 
roving ;  he  did  not.  He  loved  his  own 
country  ;  he  loved  his  profession,  and 
looked  forward  to  rise  in  it  in  time.  In 
time — there  was  the  difficulty. 

For  there  existed  something  that  he 
loved  better  than  all — Caroline  Kage. 
If  he  remained  at  home,  there  appeared 
little  chance  of  his  ever  telling  that  love. 
He  could  not  expect  her  to  wait  years 
and  years,  until  fortune  came  to  him  ; 
or.  if  she  would,  her  mother  would  cer- 
tainly not  allow  her.  But  if  he  closed 
with  this  offer  to  go  to  the  East  when  it 
should  be  made,  he  thought  he  wight 
without  breach  of  honor  ask  her  to  go 
with  him. 


That  she  loved  him  with  her  whoh 
being  he  knew.  Had  he  doubted  before 
her  conduct  at  Easter,  when  he  was  at 
Chilling,  was  sufficient  to  show  it  to  him. 
His  heart  was  at  rest ;  a  soft  glow  stole 
across  his  thin  cheeks,  a  tender  light 
into  his  eyes  in  thinking  of  her.  Even 
now,  as  he  sat  there,  his  every  pulse  was 
beating  with  happiness.  It  is  true,  she 
had  not  written  to  him  once  since  Eas- 
ter ;  but  he  knew  the  fault  lay  with 
Mrs.  Kage.  0,  if  she,  if  they  should 
deem  this  Indian  project  worth  entering 
u-pon  !  And  he  might  take  her  out 
with  him,  his  wife  !  He  fully  believed 
it  might  be  so. 

And  Thomas  Kage  began  to  pen  an 
answer  to  the  letter  in  his  hand,  the 
whole  world,  to  his  entranced  sight, 
seeming  to  be  flooded  with  an  atmos- 
phere of  brightness. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A     TERRIBLE     FEAR. 

A  brilliant  day  in  June.  In  the 
sweet  summer-room  facing  the  north,  so 
grateful  to  the  sight  and  senses  in  blad- 
ing weather,  sat  the  four  daughters  of 
George  Canterbury.  Mrs.  Dunn  was  in 
deep  black  robes  and  a  widow's  cap. 
The  others  had  assumed  slight  mourn- 
ing, and  wore  muslins. 

It  was  some  days  now  since  Mrs. 
Dunn  had  arrived  at  the  Rock,  purpos- 
ing to  make  a  long  visit.  They  had 
been  pressing  her  to  do  it  ever  since  her 
husband's  death,  but  the  settlement  of 
his  affairs  had  kept  her  in  town.  She 
was  left  (as  she  considered)  very  badly 
off.  Mr.  Dunn,  who  was  member  for 
the  count}7  when  Lydia  Canterbury 
married  him,  was  not  a  rich  man.  He 
had  something  to  do  with  iron  ;  his  wife 
never  took  the  trouble  to  ascertain  pre- 
cisely what;  and  a  great  portion  of  his 
interest  in  the  business,  whatever  it 
might  be,  went  from  him  at  his  death. 
Mrs.  Dunn  woulo  have  about  twelve  or 
fourteen  hundred  a-year  ;  it  was  nothing 
compared  with  what  she  expected  to  in- 
herit fr  >"i  her  father,  nothing  to  the  fab- 
ulous wealth  of  the  Rock.  So  Lydia 
Ouim  consider.^  herself  hardly  used  by 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


65 


Fortune,  and  wondered  how  she  should 
exist. 

She  was  three  or  four  years  younger 
than  her  sister  Olive,  and  a  plain  like- 
ness of  her.  A  less  tall  figure,  and 
without  Olive's  majesty,  with  more  than 
a  tendency  to  plumpness,  which  Olive 
had  not.  Her  hair  was  of  the  same 
beautiful  shade  of  purple  -  black  ;  her 
features  wanted  the  refined  grace  of 
Olive's,  while  they  displayed  the  resolu- 
tion. Mrs.  Dunn  was  positive,  outspok- 
en, very  fond  of  domineering;  Olive, 
quietly  resolute,  was  full  of  gracious 
courtesy.  Rumor  went — it  was  impos- 
sible to  know  whether  it  spoke  truth — 
that  Mr.  Dunn  had  ventured  to  address 
Miss  Canterbury  first,  and,  upon  finding 
out  his  mistake,  had  transferred  his  hopes 
to  Lydia. 

Whether  that  might  have  been  the 
case  or  not,  one  fact  was  certain — Lydia 
knew  nothing  of  it.  If  any  such  thing 
had  passed,  it  was  confined  to  Miss 
Canterbury's  own  breast,  and  Lydia 
married  Mr.  Dunn  in  peace.  The  very 
large  fortune  to  which  the  Miss  Canter- 
bury's were  heiresses  caused  them  to  be 
marks  for  suitors — great  prizes  to  be 
shot  for.  High  and  low  alike  cast  a 
longing  eye  on  them ;  but  the  con- 
sciousness that  this  must  inevitably  be 
the  case  caused  the  Miss  Canterburys  to 
be  exceedingly  inaccessible.  It  was  not 
that  they  would  have  made  their  riches 
any  bar,  but  the  fear  lest  those  riches 
were  the  attraction,  and  not  themselves, 
lay  more  or  less  upon  their  minds  al- 
ways. Fifteen  curates  in  all,  during  the 
last  half-dozen  years,  had  laid  them- 
selves and  their  gowns  at  the  feet  of  one 
or  other  of  the  heiresses  at  the  Rock — 
worthy  men,  no  doubt,  but  not  quite  free 
from  suspicion  as  to  motives.  Jane  and 
Leta  were  wont  to  wish,  to  some  extent 
in  earnest,  that  they  had  been  born  por- 
tionless. 

The  window  was  thrown  open  to  the 
steady  north  landscape  lying  around 
in  its  beauty,  with  its  subdued  light,  its 
welcome  shade.  On  this  side  the  park 
was  not  extensive,  a  mere  strip,  and  be- 
yond it  lay  the  green  fields  that  would 
lead  by  a  cross  road  to  Aberton.  At 
the  end  of  this  first  field — a  large  one, 
and  divided  by  a  fence,  with  a  stile  in 
the  middle — was  situated  the  dwelling 
of  Mrs.  Kage.  June  roses,  lilies,  sweet- 
4 


scented  flowers  of  many  colors,  threw  up 
their  perfume  from  the  beds  immediate- 
ly underneath  the  windows,  imbuing  the 
atmosphere  of  the  room  with  sweetness. 
It  was  the  young  ladies'  favorite  sitting- 
room.  Not  a  showroom  by  any  means, 
though  the  pictures  on  the  delicately- 
papered  walls  were  of  value,  and  the 
furniture  was  of  costly  green-and-gold, 
but  rather  an  undress  room,  in  which 
they  worked  and  read  and  played  and 
talked,  and  might  make  an  untidy  litter 
at  will. 

Olive  and  Jane  were  busy  to-day — 
the  one  cutting  out  work  for  the  charity- 
school,  the  other  tacking  the  pieces  to- 
gether. Staid,  steady,  well-conducted 
ladies,  the  Miss  Canterbuiys  directed 
the  schools  judiciously,  and  other  parish 
benefits,  of  which  they  were  the  chief 
supporters.  Mrs.  Dunn  sat  back  in  an 
easy-chair  near  the  window,  doing  noth- 
ing, as  usual — all  the  industry  she  pos- 
sessed lay  in  her  tongue  ;  and  Millicent 
was  at  the  piano  trying  a  new  piece 
very  softly  and  quietly. 

"  That  is  wrong,  I  am  sure,  Leta." 

It  was  Mrs.  Dunn  who  spoke,  in  the 
quick  abrupt  way  very  usual  with  her. 
She  was  the  only  really  good  musician 
of  the  family;  her  taste  for  it  was  in- 
nate, and  something,  or  other  in  the 
playing  had  grated  on  her  correct  ear. 

Leta  played  to  the  end  of  the  page, 
and  then  rose  from  the  piano.  Con- 
scious of  her  own  inferior  skill,  she  did 
not  often  care  to  try  new  pieces  before 
Mrs.  Dunn. 

"  I  have  played  an  hour,"  she  remark- 
ed, "  and  Olive  tells  me  that  is  quite 
long  enough  at  one  time." 

Going  to  a  writing-table,  Leta  opened 
one  of  the  desks  there,  her  own,  with 
the  intention  of  beginning  a  letter  to 
Miss  Annesley.  Putting  the  writing- 
paper  before  her,  she  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  some  information  concerning 
parish  interests,  which  Sarah  had  asked 
for,  was  not  yet  obtained. 

"  Oh  dear !  I  can't  write  until  to- 
morrow," cried  Leta.  "  Lydia,  what 
sort  of  people  are  they  where  she  is 
gone  ?  " 

"  Where  who  is  gone  ?  "  naturally 
demanded  Mrs.  Dunn,  who  could  not  be 
supposed  to  see  into  her  sister's  thoughts. 

"  Sarah  Annesley." 

"  I   don't   know  what  you   mean  by 


6Q 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


'sort.'  Mrs.  Annesley  is  a  widow  with  a 
flighty  young  daughter.  Quite  middle- 
class  people,  living  quietly  with  three 
rnaid-servants  in  Paradise-terrace — near 
to  old  Mrs.  Garston's,  you  know.  They 
are  rather  friendly  with  her." 

"  I  wish  Mrs.  Garston  had  invited 
Sarah,"  spoke  Leta  earnestly.  "  She 
might  as  well;  she  took  a  wonderful  lik- 
ing for  her  when  we  were  at  Little  Bay 
last  autumn.  Middle-class  people !  I 
don't  suppose  Sarah  will  be  very  happy 
there." 

"  Now  don't  you  run  away  with  wrong 
notions,  Miss  Millicent,"  sharply  en- 
joined Mrs.  Dunn.  "  The  Annesleys 
are  gentle-people,  and  know  what's  what. 
In  calling  them  middle-class,  I  alluded 
to  their  moderate  house  and  style  of  liv- 
ing. My  late  husband's  brother,  Rich- 
ard Dunn,  is  intimate  there.  As  to 
Sarah  Annesley,  she  is  not  the  first  of 
us  who  has  had  to  bend  to  adverse  cir- 
cumstances ;  look  at  me,  left  with  noth- 
ing a-year  ! " 

Leta  bent  her  face  to  hide  a  smile. 
Mrs.  Dunn's  grievance  of  her  "nothing 
a-year,"  had  become  a  joke  between  the 
other  sisters.  Leta  toyed  with  her  writ- 
ing-paper ;  it  was  tiresome  to  sit  down  to 
her  desk,  and  then  find  that  it  was  to 
no  purpose. 

0  Olive,"  she  said,  looking  up,  u  may 
I  write  a  note  to  ask  Caroline  Kage  to 
come  here  for  the  day?" 

Miss  Canterbury  made  no  reply.  She 
was  puzzled  over  her  wTork  just  then, 
counting  pieces.  Millicent  deferred  to 
her  as  she  would  to  a  mother. 

"  This  is  wrong,  Jane.  Nine  pairs  of 
sleeves,  and  only  eight  pairs  of  gussets  : 
you  must  have  miscounted. — What  was 
it  you  asked  me,  Leta  ?  " 

"  If  I  may  send  for  Caroline  Kage." 

"  Caroline  Kage  is  always  here,"  in- 
terrupted Mrs.  Dunn.  "  She  was  here 
to  tea  yesterday,  and  to  luncheon  the  day 
before  ;  and  for  the  whole  morning,  with 
her  mother,  the  day  before  that.  You 
had  better  have  her  to  live  here,  Milli- 
cent," 

The  words  were  delivered  with  so 
much  acrimony  that  Millicent  looked  at 
Mrs.  Dunn  in  pure  astonishment.  Miss 
Canterburjr,  her  interest  buried  in  the 
gussets  and  sleeves,  did  not  notice  the 
tone,  though  she  heard  the  words. 

"  That   is  just  what  Millicent  would 


like — to  have  her  to  live  here,  Lydia," 
Olive  said  with  a  smile. 

"  Ah  ! *'  returned  Lj'dia,  flicking  her 
broad-hemmed  handkerchief  at  a  wasp 
that  seemed  inclined  to  enter. 

"  Caroline  Kage  is  very  pleasant, 
Lydia;  we  all  like  her,"  put  in  Jane. 

"  A  pretty,  good-natured  sort  of  girl ; 
not  much  in  her,"  somewhat  slightingly 
remarked  Miss  Canterbury. 

"  If  she  were  one  of  earth's  young- 
lady  angels,  her  constant  intrusion  would 
be  irksome,"  returned  Mrs.  Dunn. 
"The  Chinese  have  a  proverb,  "Pay 
your  visits  only  on  alternate  days,  lest  bv 
continual  going  you  weary  your  friends 
and  they  become  estranged  from  jou.'' 
It  is  full  of  wisdom." 

"  Intrusion  !  "  exclaimed  Millicent, 
disregarding  the  proverb. 

"  Yes,  intrusion,"  decisively  repeated 
Mrs.  Dunn. 

"  But,  Lydia.  we  are  pleased  to  have 
her." 

Jane  Canterbury  lifted  her  scissors 
from  the  calico,  and  turned  round  to  ad- 
dress Mrs.  Dunn. 

"  The  fact  is,  Lydia,  they  have  grown 
thus  intimate  from  Leta's  want  of  other 
companions.  We  are  older  than  she  is, 
and  have  different  interests.  The 
Kages  are  our  nearest  neighbors,  you 
know,  and  she  and  Caroline  have  been 
so  much  together  that  an  affection  has 
sprung  up  between  them." 

Mrs.  Dunn  lost  some  of  her  angry  look. 
"  Ever  the  same,  Jane  ;  smoothing  down 
difficulties  for  everybody.  But  I  do 
think  it  is  time  you  left  off  that  unmean- 
ing word,  "  Leta  :  "  I  assure  3Tou  it  does 
not  contribute  to  Millicent's  dignity." 

"  I  don't  think  it  does,"  smiled  Jane. 
"  But  it  is  a  long-used  habit ;  just  as  is 
the  coming  here  of  Caroline  Kage  :  and 
every-day  habits  are  hard  to  relin- 
quish." 

"May  I  write,  Olive?"  resumed  Mil- 
licent, who  had  sat  with  her  pen  in  hand 
and  paper  before  her,  breaking  the  si- 
lence that  had  ensued. 

Mrs.  Dunn  made  a  gesture  of  impa- 
tience ;  and  her  words,  for  she  spoke  be- 
fore Olive,  were  impatiently  uttered. 

"  Caroline  Kage  is  better  where  she 
is  than  here.     Let  her  be." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  decided  Olive  hastily, 
considering  that  Mrs.  Dunn,  both  as  a 
married  woman  and  as  a  visitor,  should 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


67 


"be  especially  deferred  to  ;  "  we  will  not 
have  Caroline  to-day,  Millicent." 

Millicent  slowly  closed  her  writing- 
desk,  and  then  leaned  her  elbow  upon  it 
and  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  her  face 
plainly  expressing  disappointment.  She 
was  sincerely  attached  to  Caroline  ;  and 
it  might  be — it  might  be,  that  she  hun- 
gered for  a  word  of  news  of  Thomas 
Kage.  Never  once,  since  that  visit  of 
his  at  Easter,  when  he  had  dined  at  the 
Bock,  had  his  name  passed  Caroline's 
lips.  Before  that  period  she  had  been 
always  speaking  of  him.  Caroline  her- 
self had  seemed  changed  since ;  the 
once  light,  trifling  girl  had  become 
thoughtful  and  silent.  Once,  and  once 
only,  Leta  had  taken  courage  to  ask  af- 
ter Mr.  Kage  :  "  We  know  nothing  of 
him,"  was  Caroline's  short  answer. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Canterbury 
put  his  head  in,  as  if  asking  permission 
to  enter.  The  room  belonged  so  exclu- 
sively to  his  daughters  that  he  seemed 
to  think  he  had  no  right  in  it  uninvited. 

"  Come  in,  papa." 

There  was  a  change  in  Mr.  Canter- 
bury. The  head,  growing  so  thin  of  hair 
at  the  top,  was  now  surmounted  by  an 
auburn  wig  of  curly  luxuriance,  almost 
as  natural  as  though  it  grew  there.  An 
eye-glass  dangled  on  his  waistcoat ;  his 
morning-clothes  were  cut  in  the  most 
approved  style  of  a  fashionable  London 
tailor.  In  fact,  Mr.  Canterbury  would 
have  looked  like  a  young  dandy  had  he 
not  been  an  old  man. 

"I  think  I  shall  ride  into  Aberton, 
Olive.     Have  you  any  commands?" 

"  Thank  you,  papa ;  no.  Not  this 
morning." 

"  Is  your  head  better,  Lydia  ?  "  he  in- 
quired of  Mrs.  Dunn,  who  had  com- 
plained of  headache  at  breakfast. 

"  It  aches  still,  papa  ;  I  have  had  it  a 
good  deal  lately.  I  think  these  hot  caps 
help  to  give  it  to  me,"  she  added,  push- 
ing her  widow's  cap  back  on  her  head. 

"  Why  do  you  wear  them,  then  ?  " 

"  0  well,  papa,  you  know  it  is  the  cus- 
tom. Had  I  not  followed  it,  people 
would  have  been  found  to  say  I  had  not 
cared  for  my  husband." 

"  I  should  not  let  what  such  people 
could  say  trouble  me,"  sensibly  remarked 
Mr.  Canterbury. — "  You  look  as  if  you 
had  the  headache,  also,"  he  added  to 
Millicent,  his  gaze  falling  on  her. 


"No,  I  have  not,"  said  she.  rousing 
herself,  and  rising  from  her  seat. 

"  What's  the  matter,  then  ?  " 

"Not  much,  papa." 

"Not  much!     What  is  it?" 

"I  only  felt  disappointed,"  explained 
Leta  shortly,  a  little  vexed  at  having  to 
confess  it. 

"What  at?"  persisted  Mr.  Canter- 
bury, who  did  not  like  to  see  his  daugh- 
ters' faces  clouded,  especially  hers,  who 
had  been  in  a  degree  the  plaything  of 
them  all — Leta. 

"  I  wanted  to  write  for  Caroline  Kage 
to  come  and  spend  the  day  here,  and 
Olive  will  not  let  me." 

"  Caroline  Kage  is  here  too  much  ; 
she  inundates  us,"  sharply  interrupted 
Mrs.  Dunn,  in  a  voice  of  authority. 
"  Not  a  day  since  I  came  home  have  we 
been  free  from  Caroline  Kage.  Seven 
days  I  have  been  here,  and  seven  visits, 
some  of  them  lasting  for  hours,  we  have 
had  of  that  girl's !  It  is  unreason- 
able." 

There  was  a  pause ;  Mr.  Canterbury 
broke  it.  Leta,  feeling  uncomfortable 
at  having  caused  the  unpleasantness, 
went  and  stood  at  the  window. 

"  Why  do  you  dislike  her,  Lydia  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  dislike  her,  papa,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Dunn,  suppressing  her  irri- 
tation badly  :  but  I  consider  that  she  is 
here  too  much." 

"  Here  is  Caroline  herself,  coming 
up  !  "  exclaimed  Millicent. 

Miss  Kage  was  advancing  underneath 
the  window  then  ;  they  heard  her  voice 
as  she  looked  up  and  spoke  to  Leta. 
Mr.  Canterbury,  about  to  quit  the  room, 
turned,  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 

"  Then,  as  she  is  here,  you  can  ask 
her  to  stay  for  the  day,"  he  said,  looking 
at  Olive.  "Why  not?  I  do  not  like 
to  see  Millicent  with  a  sad  face,"  he 
concluded,  as  if  accounting  for  his  de- 
cision. 

Mr.  Canterbury  met  Miss  Kage  in 
the  hall,  and  two  or  three  minutes 
elapsed  before  she  came  to  the  room — 
alone  ;  a  remarkably  pretty  girl  this 
morning,  in  her  pink-muslin  dress,  and 
a  white  bonnet  as  light  and  airy  as  her- 
self. 

"You  have  come  to  save  us  the 
trouble  of  sending  for  you,  Caroline," 
spoke  Millicent,  forgetting  vexation  in 


68 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


the  exuberance  of  her  spirits.  "  We 
want  you  to  remain  the  day." 

"  I  cannot  remain  ten  minutes,"  re- 
plied Miss  Kage.     "  Many  thanks." 

"  0,  I  am  so  sorry  !  "  exclaimed  Mil- 
licent.  "  Ten  minutes,  Caroline  !  where 
was  the  use  of  your  coming  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  came  for  mamma.  She  has  had 
one  of  those  tiresome  letters  again,  and 
sent  me  with  it  to  Mr.  Canterbury.  I 
have  given  it  to  him." 

"  But  why  can  you  not  remain  ?  " 

"  Because  my  cousin  has  just  arrived 
on  one  of  his  flying  visits,  and  I  must 
go  back  home." 

"  What  cousin  ?  "  asked  Olive. 

"  Thomas  Kage." 

"  Caroline,"  said  Jane  archly,  "  I 
fancy  that  cousin  of  yours  has  some 
other  motive  than  cousinship  in  these 
flying  visits  of  his." 

Miss  Kage  tossed  her  head  ;  she  had 
caught  Jane's  meaning  aptly.  It  was 
some  weeks  now  since  she  had  resolved 
to  put  old  feelings  behind  her,  to  regard 
them  as  though  they  had  never  been. 

"  What  an  idea,  Miss  Jane  !  Cer- 
tainly not.  Thomas  Kage  is  grave  as  a 
judge,  and  poor  as  any  church-mouse. 
You  are  quite  wrong.  As  if  I  would 
encourage  him  /  " 

The  vivid  blush  rising  on  her  face 
faded  away  to  a  deathlike  paleness. 
Leta  Canterbury,  shaded  by  the  curtain, 
saw  it,  and  wondered. 

"  You  might  tolerate  a  worse,"  said 
Mrs.  Dunn  in  her  strong  tones,  the  first 
words  she  had  spoken.  "Thomas  Kage 
is  one  of  the  worthiest  of  created  men." 

"  Is  he  ?  "  rejoined  Caroline,  with  a 
painful  effort  to  be  careless.  "He  is 
very  poor." 

"  I  don't  care  whether  he  is  poor  or 
rich  ;  you'll  not  find  another  like  him, 
search  the  world  through." 

Olive  turned  round.  She  could  not 
understand  her  sister  Lydia  this  morn- 
ing, and  felt  thoroughly  ashamed  of  her 
sharp  rudeness.  "  Will  you  spend  to- 
morrow with  Leta,  my  dear  ?  "  she  said 
pleasantly  to  Caroline. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  Miss  Canterbury. 
I  shall  be  very  glad." 

She  wished  them  good-morning,  and 
departed.  Leta  went  to  the  end  of  the 
room,  and  began  to  sort  some  silks  for 
her  embroidery.  Olive  and  Jane  remain- 
ed at  their  useful  work  over  the  table. 


"  What  brought  her  up  with  that  let- 
ter ?  "  abruptly  cried  Mrs.  Dunn,  turn- 
ing her  chair  from  the  window,  so  as  to 
face  her  sisters. 

Their  surprise  increased.  Lydia  had 
alwa}7s  been  fond  of  setting  the  world  to 
rights,  and  interfering  in  what  did  not 
concern  her ;  but  this  acrimonious  turn 
of  mind  was  something  new. 

"  Caroline  said  Mrs.  Kage  sent  her 
with  the  letter,"  replied  Jane  meekly. 
"  Poor  Mrs.  Kage  has  had  some  trouble- 
some law -business  to  contend  with, 
lately,  and  papa  advises  her  upon  it, 
Lydia." 

"  Law  -  business  !  "  retorted  Lydia, 
with  an  angry  scoff. 

"  Law- business  of  some  nature:  I 
don't  understand  it.  How  lovelj7  Caro- 
line was  looking  this  morning  !  " 

"  And  how  well  she  dresses  ! "  re- 
marked Olive.  "  Those  lace  sleeves 
were  real  Brussels.  I  wonder  how  they 
manage  it." 

"I  mean,  what  brought  her  up  with 
it  ?"  continued  Mrs.  Dunn,  tapping  her 
foot  with  impatience.  "  Why  could 
Mrs.  Kage  not  have  sent  it  by  a  ser- 
vant ?  " 

"  I  daresay  Caroline  was  glad  to 
bring  it  herself.  What  has  put  you 
out,  Lydia  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dunn  did  not  say.  She  took  up 
a  book  and  began  to  read.  But  she 
seemed  to  grow  restless  :  now  turning 
the  leaves  forward,  now  backward,  as  if 
her  mind  or  her  temper  would  not  get 
straight. 

"  I  have  no  green  of  the  right  shade," 
cried  Leta,  looking  up  from  her  silks. 
"  May  I  go  out  for  it,  Olive  ?  " 

"  Where  to  ? — Chilling  ?  You  would 
never  get  it  there." 

"  I  think  I  might ;  it  is  the  dark 
green.  At  least,  I  can  try,  Olive,  if 
you  have  no  objection." 

"None  at  all.  You  can  carry  some 
of  this  work  to  the  school  at  the  same 
time. 

A  small  bundle  was  made  up  and 
given  to  Leta,  when  she  came  in  with 
her  things  on.  Mrs.  Dunn,  whose  rest- 
lessness seemed  on  the  increase,  pres- 
ently flung  her  book  down,  and  stood  at 
the  window,  fanning  her  hot  and  angry 
face.  Suddenly  she  put  up  her  hands 
to  shade  her  eyes,  as  if  looking  at  some- 
thing,  and   then    turned  with  a  hasty 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


69 


movement  to  open  the  doors  of  an  orna- 
mental cabinet. 

"  Where  is  the  glass  that  used  to  he 
kept  here  ?  " 

"  The  small  telescope,  do  you  mean, 
Lydia  ?  Poor  Edgar  took  it  out  with 
him  one  day  just  before  he  died,  and 
lost  it." 

"  The  large  one,  then  ?  " 

"0  —  that?  I  don't  know  where 
that  is,"  slowly  added  Miss  Canterbury. 

"  Somewhere  in  papa's  possession,  I 
fancy." 

"  The  house  seems  quite  upset  since  I 
left  it — nothing  to  be  found,"  muttered 
Mrs.  Dunn,  taking  up  her  post  at  the 
window  again.  "  As  to  me,  I  am  more 
near-sighted  than  ever." 

"  Did  you  want  to  discern  any- 
thing?" asked  Jane,  kindly  leaving 
her  seat  to  join  Mrs.  Dunn.  "  Perhaps 
I  can  see  it  for  you." 

"  Look  at  those  two  in  the  distance, 
leaning  as  it  seems  to  me — on  a  stile, 
and  talking.  Is  not  one  of  them 
papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jane,  casting  her  good 
sight  to  the  spot.  "  Papa  and  —  yes, 
and  Caroline  Kage.  I  can  see  her  pink 
dress.  He  has  gone  after  her,  I  dare- 
say, to  send  a  message  to  her  mother 
about  the  letter." 

u  And  perhaps  to  repeat  my  invitation 
for  to-morrow,"  added  Olive,  "  though 
he  does  not  know  of  it." 

"  Or  to  inquire  why  she  cannot  re- 
main to-day,"  said  Jane,  returning  to 
her  work.  "Papa  is  ever  thinking  for 
us." 

"  You  blind  geese !  you  simple  wo- 
men !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dunn,  in  an  ac- 
cent of  earnestness  so  impassioned  that 
they  dropped  what  they  .held,  and  gazed 
at  her  in  startled  alarm.  "  Is  it  possible 
that  your  eyes  and  understanding  have 
been  closed?"  she  continued,  flinging 
herself  back  in  the  arm-chair.  "  Olive, 
where  have  yours  been  ?  Jane  is  meek 
and  unsuspicious  ;  Millicent  is  young  ; 
but  you !  Olive,  are  you  quite  blind, 
quite  oblivious  to  what  is.  going  on  ?  " 

"  What  is  going  on  ?  "  demanded 
Olive,  when  her  astonishment  allowed 
her  to  speak. 

"It  is  a  sin  and  a  shame  that  you 
should  need  to  ask." 

Olive  Canterbury  felt  just  a  little  ag- 
grieved at  being  thus  called  to  account 
by  her  younger  sister  ;  she,  the  efficient 


-"  Jane,  give 


mistress.  She  waited  to  draw  a  thread 
in  the  linen,  and  then  spoke  with  calm 
impassibility. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  detect  amiss  ? 
I  look  closely  after  the  household  in  all 
requisite  things." 

"  More  closely  than  you  will  in  future  ; 
more  closely  than  you  will  have  an  op- 
portunity of  doing.  You  will  not  long 
be  the  house'*  mistress." 

"Indeed!"  said  Olive.- 
me  the  large  scissors." 

"  Olive  !  Olive  !  you  are  treating  me 
as  if  I  were  a  simpleton.  —  Jane,  put 
down  that  wretched  work,  and  listen  ;  I 
am  in  earnest.  I  say  that  Olive  will 
not  much  longer  be  here  the  ruler." 

She  did  seem  in  earnest.  Neverthe- 
less, they  thought  her  intellects  must  be 
wandering.  Jane  let  her  delicate  hands 
drop  idly  on  the  work.  Her  ideas 
had  taken  a  curious  turn  :  she  could 
only  think  the  words  applied  to  Olive's 
possible  death. 

"What  is  it  that  you  are  fearing, 
Lydia?  Olive  is  quite  well.  She  ai- 
wa}Ts  looks  pale  in  hot  weather." 

"  0,  you — you  idiots  !  "  returned  Mrs. 
Dunn,  wringing  her  hands  ;  "  was  there 
ever  blindness  like  unto  yours  ?  It  is 
not  Olive  that  there's  anj'thing  the  mat- 
ter with,  but  your  father.  He  is  turning 
foolish  in  his  old  age.  He  is  going  to 
put  a  mistress  over  you." 

They  were,  indeed,  blindly  unsuspi- 
cious. "A  mistress!  "  slowly  repeated 
Miss  Canterbury,  not  yet  understand- 
ing. 

"  Yes,  a  mistress  :  for  the  house  and 
for  you.     A  second  wife." 

A  pause  of  moments  :  it  needed  that 
to  take  in  the  sense  of  the  words. 
Jane's  face,  generally  so  calm,  grew 
painfully  agitated.  Olive  turned  red 
with  indignation.  Her  well  -  balanced 
mind  refused  to  believe  a  word  of  the 
assertion.    • 

"  Lydia,  I  did  not  think  you  were  ca- 
pable of  sa}ring  this." 

"  But  if  it  be  true  ?  And  I  tell  you 
that  it  is.  Your  father  has  fixed  upon 
a  second  wife  as  surely  as  that  we  sit 
here." 

"  Of  whom  can  you  be  thinking  ?  " 
asked  Miss  Canterbury,  slightly  per- 
plexed, as  her  thoughts  went  out  to  the 
neighborhood  and  home  again.  "  Of 
Mrs.  Kage  ?  " 

"  No.      I  wish  it  was  :   it  would  be 


70 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


the  less  evil  of  the  two.     It  is  the  girl 
— Caroline." 

"  0  Lydia  !  "  was  simultaneously  ut- 
tered, in  resentful  incredulity. 

Mrs.  Dunn  rose  from  her  seat  again  : 
she  seized  Olive  with  one  hand,  Jane 
with  the  other,  and  pulled  them  towards 
the  window. 

"  Are  they  gone  ?  No,  not  yet.  I 
can  see  the  figures,  indistinct  figures  to 
me.  To  Jane  they  are  plain  ;  perhaps 
to  you  also,  Olive.  They  are  talking 
still." 

"  And  if  they  are,"  said  the  angry 
Olive,  "  what  does  that  prove  ?  If  pa- 
pa chooses  to  stand  talking  to  a  child, 
and  to  talk  all  day  long,  what  is  there 
in  that  ?  " 

"  Not  much — in  that  alone  :  he  might 
so  stand  talking  to  me  or  to  you.  You 
have  no  cause  to  he  angry  with  me, 
Olive  :  you  will  find  it  too  true.  I  had 
my  suspicions  the  very  first  day  of  my 
return." 

The  hare  idea  in  itself,  apart  from 
its  possible  truth,  that  Mrs.  Dunn's 
words  presented  to  these  ladies,  was  ex- 
ceedingly unpleasant  and  unpalatable  ; 
it  might  not  be  too  much  to  say  repul- 
sive. In  spite  of  their  hitherto  com- 
plete unconsciousness,  a  miserable  feel- 
ing arose  in  either  heart,  as  they  stood 
looking  at  the  figures  in  the  distance. 

"  A  child  like  Caroline  Kage  !  "  re- 
monstrated Miss  Canterbury,  determin- 
ed to  combat  to  the  end. 

"  There's  the  worst  of  the  evil  —  a 
child,"  said  Mrs.  Dunn.  "  Had  he 
married  one  of  his  own  age,  or  near  to 
it,  it  would  not  have  been  so  bad  for  us  ; 
it  would  have  been  more  seemly  in  eve- 
ry way.  Though  what  on  earth  he  can 
want  to  marry  at  all  for,  after  being  a 
widower  all  these  years,  I  cannot  tell." 
Jane's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 
"  It  is  not  likely  that  it  can  be  true, 
Lydia ;  it  is  not  probable.  How  can 
you  have  formed  so  strange  a  notion  ?  " 
"  Just  as  you  might  have  formed  it, 
had  scales  not  been  over  your  sight. 
The  most  extraordinary  events  take 
place  under  people's  noses  every  day, 
and  they  cannot  see  them.  This 
was  your  case.  I  came  fresh  into  the 
house,  with  my  eyes  and  understanding 
wide  awake,  and  I  saw  it  all." 

"Saw  what?  What  was  there  to 
see  ?  "    persisted  Miss  Canterbury,  in  as 


irritable  a  tone  as  Mrs.  Dunn  herself 
might  have  used — she,  the  ever-gracious 
woman. 

"Various  little  points,  which  taken  to- 
gether, make  an  ominous  whole,"  was 
the  answer.  "  Though  you  might  say 
that  this  was  nothing,  and  that  was  noth- 
ing, looked  at  separately." 

The  figures  at  the  stile  had  parted 
now,  and  Mr.  Canterbury  was  on  his 
way  back  again.  Some  other  gentle- 
man, who  had  come  up  to  the  spot,  was 
walking  on  with  Caroline. 

"  When  I  got  here  a  week  ago,  and 
papa  came  out  to  the  carriage  to  see  me, 
I  was  so  struck  by  his  appearance,  that 
for  a  moment  I  could  not  greet  him," 
said  Mrs.  Dunn.  "  Where  was  there  so 
negligent  a  man  in  regard  to  dress  as  he 
used  to  be  ?  He  had  on  a  white  waist- 
coat;  his  white  wristbands  were  dis- 
played ;  and  an  eyeglass  hung  from  an 
invisible  chain.  When  did  he  ever  put 
on  a  white  waistcoat  in  the  daj'time  ? 
or  show  the  ghost  of  a  wristband  ?  or 
discard  his  spectacles  for  an  eyeglass  ?  " 
"  I  think  he  took  to  show  his  wrist- 
bands when  he  was  in  mourning  for  Ed- 
gar," interposed  Jane. 

"  I  don't  care  when  he  took  to  show 
them.  Not  then ;  or,  if  he  did,  he  left 
it  off  again :  it  is  a  new  thing  now. 
Everything's  new  about  him,  and  it 
must  have  a  purpose,"  argued  Mrs. 
Dunn. 

There  was  a  most  uncomfortable  si- 
lence. 

"  And  his  wig  !  "  resumed  Mrs.  Dunn. 
"  Was  there  ever  such  a  dandified  thing 
seen  ?     Look  at  it !  " 

"  The  top  of  his  head  was  getting  so 
bald :  that's  why  he  took  to  a  wig," 
spoke  Jane  in  a  low  tone. 

"Rubbish!"  said  Mrs.  Dunn.  "He'd 
no  more  have  cared  for  his  bald  head, 
when  there  was  only  you  to  look  at  it, 
than  he'd  have  cared  for  flying.  Have 
it,  if  you  like,  that  he  did  wish  for  a 
wig:  need  he  have  gone  and  bought  a 
thing  only  fit  for  a  turning  dummy,  in 
a  hairdresser's  window — a  top-knot  of 
perfumed  curls  ?  " 

"  We  did  say  it  was  too  young  for  papa 
the  first  morning  he  came  down  to  break- 
fast in  it,"  murmured  Jane. 

"  He  has  had  his  three  teeth  put  in," 
pursued  Mrs.  Dunn. 

"  They  were  out,"  said  Jane. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


71 


"  They  had  been  out  nearly  as  long  as 
I  can  remember  5  certainly  before  mam- 
ma died.  Why  should  he  have  taken  a 
sudden  freak  to  have  them  put  in  now, 
after  all  these  years  ?  He'll  he  putting 
rouge  on  his  cheeks  next ;  the}7  say  some 
men  do  it." 

"  Lydia,  I  will  not  have  you  speak  so 
of  your  father,"  reproved  Olive,  her  feel- 
ings stung  to  the  quick. 

"Very  well  ;  I'll  let  him  alone.  Turn 
to  Caroline  Kage.  Do  you  suppose  she 
comes  here,  so  persistently,  for  }rou  girls  ? 
— dresses  up  her  pretty  face  in  smiles 
for  your  benefit  ?  Why  does  papa  stand 
by  when  she  is  singing  ?  Why  does  he 
laugh,  and  joke,  and  whisper  —  I  have 
seen  him  whisper  to  her — and  why  does 
he  walk  home  with  her  in  an  evening,  as 
he  nearly  always  does  ?  "       7 

"  I  believe  he  has  only  paid  her  these 
attentions  as  he  might  pay  them  to  any 
other  child — paid  them  partly  because 
she  is  a  child,"  stoutly  spoke  Olive. 

"  Has  he  ?  "  sarcastically  retorted  Mrs. 
Dunn. 

"  It  never  occurred  to  "me  to  think 
otherwise,  Lydia." 

"  Well,  does  it  occur  to  you  now — now 
that  the  clue  has  been  given  ?  " 

Miss  Canterbury  did  not  answer.  The 
clue,  as  Mrs.  Dunn  called  it,  was  forcing 
its  way  to  terrible  conviction,  in  spite  of 
her  assumption  of  disbelief.  Jane  felt 
wretched,  and  stood  with  a  blank  face  of 
distress. 

"  That  you  have  helped  this  on,  per- 
haps even  led  to  it  wholly,  by  having  her 
here  so  much,  is  certain,"  said  Mrs. 
Dunn,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  re- 
ceived a  deep  injury.  "  How  you  could 
have  been  so  obtuse  I  cannot  imagine, 
when  the  very  first  hour  I  saw  them  to- 
gether was  enough  for  me." 

"You  have  had  so  much  more  experi- 
ence than  we  have;  you  have  been  out 
in  the  world,"  urged  Jane  dtprecatingly. 
"  And  I  think,  Lydia,  that  being  mar- 
ried must  tend  to  enlarge  the  understand- 
ing, and  give  experience  of  mankind." 

'•  It  just  does,"  emphatically  pro- 
nounced Mrs.  Dunn  ;  "  if  you  mean  as 
to  their  tricks  and  turns.  As  long  as  we 
are  girls  at  home,  the  men  seem  to  us 
like  so  many  saints,  who  could  not  go 
wrong  if  they  were  paid  for  it ;  but  that 
delusion  wears  off  uncommonly  quick,  I 
can  tell  you,  when  we  go  out  amongst 


them.  I  don't  complain  of  my  late  hus- 
band; he  was  a  good  one  personally; 
but  I  learnt  a  little  as  to  men  in  general." 

How  all  this   grated  on  the  ears  of 
Miss  Canterbury,  she  alone  could  have 
told.  2sot  for  many  a  long  year  had  such 
a  burden  of  dread  taken  up  its  seat  with- 
in her. 

"  0  Lydia,  I  trust — I  trust  yon  are 
mistaken!"  escaped  from  her  full  heart. 
"  Or  at  least,  if  not,  that  the  mischief 
may  be  averted." 

"  Mistaken  I  am  not,  Olive  ;  but  as  to 
averting  it,  that's  another  thing.  I  do 
not  say  matters  have  gone  so  far  as  to 
prevent  that,"  continued  Mrs.  Dunn, 
somewhat  qualifying  her  former  hasty 
words.  "Papa  has  got  an  idea  in  his 
head,  for  certain,  as  to  Caroline  Kage  ; 
but  he  may  not  commit  himself  to  irre- 
deemable folly." 

"Here  he  is,  coining  through  the 
gate,"  observed  Jane. 

They  looked  at  him,  one  and  all,  as  he 
turned  in  from  the  park  to  the  grounds, 
and  bore  round  for  the  front  of  the  house, 
where  his  groom  was  waiting  with  the 
horses,  withdrawing  themselves  a  little 
from  the  window  as  they  gazed.  Mr. 
Canterbury  was  presented  to  their  view 
in  a  new  and  curious  aspect.  Not  but 
that  he  was  the  same  ;  only  their  ideas  in 
regard  to  him  had  undergone  a  change. 

"  God  help  us  all,  if  it  should  be  so  !  " 
fervently  aspirated  Olive  under  her 
breath. 

0  wily  Mrs.  Kage  !  It  was  she  who 
had  brought  about  this  undesirable  con- 
summation of  things  ;  for  Lydia  Dunn 
was  not  mistaken.  Coming  fresh  upon 
the  scene,  with  all  her  wits  about  her, 
vividly  open  to  all  impressions,  she  had 
seen  what  the  lookers-on  had  failed  to 
detect  even  by  the  smallest  suspicion. 

Casting  about  for  a  desirable  establish- 
ment for  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Kage  had 
laid  covetous  eyes  on  the  Rock.  It's 
true  it  had  its  disadvantages — she  could 
not  conceal  that  from  herself;  but  think 
of  its  wealth  !  Mr.  Canterbury  had  long 
left  sixty  behind  him,  and  his  grown-up 
children,  all  of  them  older  than  Caroline, 
were  fixtures  in  the  house.  But  with  a 
fortune  such  as  his,  what  might  not  be 
overlooked  ?  she  mentally  argued.  Cer- 
tainly all  minor  difficulties.  And  if  Car- 
oline could  only  be  persuaded At 


72 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


this  point  of  her  weaving,  Mrs.  Kage  in- 
variably lost  the  thread. 

The  web  was  begun,  and  grew.  Per- 
haps Mrs.  Kage  and  Mr.  Canterbury 
went  in  for  nearly  an  equal  share  iu  its 
work  ;  though  the  lady  was  undoubtedly 
the  primary  originator,  and  set  it  on 
a-weaving.  Fortune  sometimes  favors 
these  schemes,  as  if  the  goddess  herself 
were  an  arch-plotter :  and  it  was  the  case 
here.  Mrs.  Kage  got  into  some  legal 
difficult}^  touching  a  good  sum  of  monej' 
sought  to  be  charged  upon  the  very  small 
property  she  had  inherited  from  her  sis- 
ter. Thomas  Kage  would  have  been  the 
right  man  to  apply  to — he  could  have  set 
it  right  in  no  time ;  but  Mrs.  Kage 
shrank  from  his  very  name ;  for  that 
Caroline  was  wilful  enough  to  care  for 
him  as  she  would  never  care  for  anyone 
else,  Mrs.  Kage  had  become  convinced 
of  at  Easter.  Ko ;  anyone  rather  than 
him ;  and  Mrs.  Kage  contrived  to  find 
another,  and  to  kill  two  birds  with  one 
stone.  She  consulted  Mr.  Canterbury. 
That  gentleman,  possessing  about  as 
much  legal  acumeu  as  one  of  the  deer 
in  his  own  park;  but  considering  himself 
equal  to  the  best  lawyer  going,  was  both 
ready  and  willing  to  be  consulted,  and 
went  into  the  affair  with  energy.  It  in- 
volved many  visits  to  Mrs.  Kage,  where 
he  was  always  plunged  amidst  the  fas- 
cinations of  Caroline,  wdio  .was  not  slow 
to  exercise  them.  It  involved  visits  back 
to  Mr.  Canterbury ;  letters  to  be  shown, 
fresh  thoughts  and  fears  to  be  verbally 
told  ;  and  Caroline  was  generally  chosen 
for  the  messenger.  This  bore  rapid  fruit. 
When  elderly  gentlemen  fall  into  an  at- 
tachment of  this  kind,  they  do  it  in  a 
great  hurry,  as  if  time  wrere  coming  to 
an  end  before  the  year  were  out ;  and 
Mr.  Canterbury  served  for  an  exemplifi- 
cation. Caroline  was  as  wise  as  he  ;  be- 
fore the  man  had  advanced  farther  than 
thinking  her  a  sweet,  lovable,  charming 
girl,  and  showing  in  manner  that  he 
thought  it,  she  saw  what  kind  of  an  end 
was  to  supervene.  If  she  did  not  posi- 
tively encourage  his  admiration,  she  cer- 
tainly never  repelled  it;  but  she  saw  it 
needed  no  specific  encouragement.  In 
the  coquetry  of  a  light-minded  woman — 
and  Caroline  had  it  and  exercised  it  in 
abundance — she  was  content  to  be  made 
covert  love  to,  to  feed  Mr.  Canterbury's 
growing   dreams,  and  to  let  the  future 


take  care  of  itself.  Whether  she  should 
accept  Mr.  Canterbury,  when  the  time 
came  for  a  decision,  and  become  mistress 
of  the  Rock  and  its  wide  revenues;  or 
whether  she  should  laugh  prettily,  and 
stare  at  him  with  wide-open  eyes  of  won- 
dering simplicity  while  she  rejected  him, 
Caroline  wras  unable  to  foresee,  and  did 
not  care  to  think.  Ever  and  anon  a  vis- 
ion came  over  her  of  Thomas  Kage's 
making  his  unexpected  appearance  at 
Chilling,  with  the  news  that  he  had  drop- 
ped into  a  large  fortune  through  some 
old  relative  or  friend  (Mrs.  Garston,  say) 
who  had  conveniently  died,  and  asked 
her,  Caroline,  to  share  it  with  him.  So 
wildly  would  her  bosom  throb  with  its 
momentary  rapture,  that  she  had  to  press 
her  hand  there. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SUNSHINE  GONE  OUT  FOREVER. 

The  advance  portion  of  Caroline 
Kage's  delusive  dream  was  suddenly  re- 
alized. Between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock 
on  a  brilliant  June  morning — the  one 
mentioned  in  the  last  chapter — Thomas 
Kage  walked  in.  Caroline's  heart  leap- 
ed up  within  her ;  in  her  tumultuous 
joy,  she  could  scarcely  believe  his  ap- 
pearance real. 

And  Mrs.  Kage's  spirits  went  down 
in  about  an  equal  proportion.  Mr.  Can- 
terbury's attentions  had  become  so  palpa- 
ble that  Mrs.  Kage  thought  some  climax 
must  be  at  hand,  or  ought  to  be.  Let- 
ters touching  her  law-business  arrived 
conveniently  quick :  one  that  same 
morning.  She  had  been  telling  Caro- 
line to  take  it  up  to  Mr.  Canterbury, 
and  what  to  say  about  it,  when  they 
were  thus  broken  in  upon  by  Thomas 
Kage.  Mrs.  Kage  was  struck  into  a 
state  of  dismay  at  the  unwelcome  inter- 
ruption, and  at  thought  of  the  mischief 
it  might  work  to  the  smooth  on-fiow  of 
existing  things.  In  answer  to  her  short 
questions,  he  said  he  had  taken  the 
night-train  down  to  Aberton  ;  and  he 
said  no  more.  Mrs.  Kage  inwardly 
wished  the  train  had  buried  itself  in 
some  dangerous  cutting  en  route,  and 
him  with  it. 

"  Business  at  Aberton,  I  suppose,  as 
usual,"  she  observed  resentfully. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


73 


"No.  I  had  no  business  at  Aberton 
this  time,"  was  Mr.  Kage's  answer. 

"You  must  have  had  a  warm  walk 
from  there." 

"  Not  very.  It  is  an  exceedingly  de- 
lightful morning,  Mrs.  Kage,  with  a 
pleasant  breeze.  —  Will  you  come  out 
with  me  presently,  and  try  it  ?  "  he  ad- 
ded pointedly  to  Caroline. 

She  neither  said  yes  or  no.  His  com- 
ing down  had  put  her  into  a  perplexing 
state  of  indecision.  Was  that  vision 
of  hers  about  to  be  realized  ?  Had  for- 
tune come  to  him?  Quite  accidentally, 
Mrs.  Kage  caused  the  question  to  be 
solved. 

"  Are  you  getting  on  well  in  your 
profession  ?  " 

"  Not  well ;  very  slowly,"  he  answer- 
ed. "  In  fact,  so  slowly,  that  I  am  not 
sure  but  I  shall  give  it  up,  and  try  my 
luck  in  another  line." 

Caroline  listened.  She  could  have 
laughed  a  bitter  laugh  at  her  own  fond 
folly.  And  that  fair  hopeful  dream,  as 
connected  with  fortune  and  Thomas 
Kage,  flew  abruptly  away  forever. 

Getting  the  letter  into  her  possession, 
she  put  on  her  prettiest  bonnet,  and 
contrived  to  quit  the  house  unseen. 
Something  in  his  manner,  when  he  had 
asked  her  to  go  out  with  him,  imparted 
to  her  an  almost  certain  conviction  that 
he  wanted  to  speak  of  his  love  :  in  these 
matters,  there  is  a  language  not  to  be 
misunderstood  :  and  Caroline  would 
fain  shun  the  interview.  But  she  did 
not  dare  remain  long  at  the  Rock,  lest 
he  should  come  in  search  of  her. 

This  he  did.  WThile  she  and  Mr. 
Canterbury  stood  together  at  the  stile  in 
close  converse,  Thomas  Kage  walked 
across  the  field  and  joined  them.  Vex- 
ed at  the  inopportune  interruption,  Mr. 
Canterbury  was  rather  short  with  the 
young  barrister,  in  spite  of  his  real  lik- 
ing for  him,  and  turned  back  home 
again  after  a  shake  of  the  hand  and  a 
few  words. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  you  were 
going  to  the  Rock,  Caroline  ?  "  began 
Mr.  Kage,  as  he  assisted  her  over  the 
stile,  and  the}'  proceeded  onwards.  "  I 
would  have  walked  with  you." 

In  defiance  of  the  warm  love  that 
glowed  within  her,  tingling  her  pulses, 
flushing  her  cheeks,  Caroline  Kage 
steeled   her    heart    against    him.     The 


very  effort  to  do  it — the  consciousness 
that  it  must  be  done  —  rendered  her 
manner  cold,  abrupt,  and  petulant. 

That  is  just  what  I  did  not  tell  you," 
she  said.     "  I  wanted  to  go  alone." 

"  Will  you  take  my  arm  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you.  It's  not  the  fash- 
ion to  take  arms  in  this  part  of  the 
world." 

"  It  was,  the  last  time  I  was  down 
here.  Do  you  remember  our  moonlight 
walk  over  these  same  paths  ?  And  I 
think  you  were  just  now  leaning  on  Mr. 
Canterbury's." 

"  But  he  is  so  very  close  a  friend." 

"  And  I  am  your  cousin." 

"  A  great  many  degrees  removed," 
she  said,  with  a  little  nervous  laugh. 

"  The  more  the  better,  Caroline,  in 
one  point  of  view.  W7hat  a  beau  he  is 
getting  ! " 

"  Who  is  ?  " 

"  Old  Canterbury.  He  is  ten  years 
younger,  to  look  at,  than  he  was  two 
months  ago.  What  has  he  been  doing 
to  himself?" 

How  came  you  to  pay  us  a  visit  to-day, 
and  to  come  without  sending  word  ?  " 
quickly  inquired  Caroline,  as  if  anxious 
to  pass  by  the  subject  of  Mr.  Canter- 
bury's looks. 

"  I  came  to  see  you,  Caroline." 

"0!"  she  slighting^  said,  wishing 
she  had  wings  and  could  fly  away.  "  I 
thought  you  always  had  business  at  Ab- 
erton. Don't  say  any  more  about  it ; 
I  would  rather  not  know." 

"  First  of  all,  I  wish  to  tell  you  some 
news,  Caroline,"  he  continued  quietly  ; 
"  and  then  I  would  ask  your  advice.  I 
have  had  a  post  offered  me  in  India,  and 
I  am  deliberating  whether  it  will  or  will 
not  be  worth  my  while  to  give  up  the 
law  and  accept  it.  The  commencing 
salary  would  be  seven  hundred  a-3'ear ; 
the  rise,  thej'  sa}r,  tolerably  rapid.  In 
six  or  seven  years  from  this  it  might  be 
fifteen  hundred  —  rather  more  than 
doubled." 

"You  do  not  make  seven  hundred 
a-year  in  London  ?  " 

"Nothing  like  it;  I  wish  I  did; 
there'd  be  no  question  then  of  my  leav- 
ing it.  This  year  I  expect  to  make 
about  three  hundred,  all  told." 

"  Then  I  should  go  to  India,"  she 
said,  with  animation.  "  You  may  never 
have  such  a  chance  thrown  in  your  way 


74 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


again.  Accept  it  at  once,  without  hesi- 
tation. I  should  start  by  the  next 
mail." 

"  Should  you  ?  Is  that  your  deliber- 
ate advice  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  could  not  go  alone,  Caroline." 

The  moment  was  coming.  She  hated 
it  very  much,  simply  because  she  knew 
she  should  be  false  both  to  him  and  her- 
self.    Her  face  took  a  white  hue. 

"  If  I  can — can  induce  one  to  go  out 
with  me,  1113^  loving  companion,  and 
share  my  fortunes,  then  I  will  go. 
Otherwise,  I  stay  and  fight  out  my  fate 
in  England." 

Caroline  Kage  did  not  answer.  Her 
manner  and  face  had  grown  cold  as  a 
stone.  He  resumed,  turning  on  her  his 
good  honest  eyes,  speaking  in  a  low, 
steady  tone. 

"  A  great  hope  has  lain  within  me  for 
several  months  now  ;  in  fact,  since  that 
sojourn  at  the  sea-side  last  year  ;  you 
and  I  have  met  twice  since  then,  and 
with  each  time  it  has  grown  brighter 
and  surer.  I  did  not  speak  of  it;  while 
my  future  was  so  doubtful,  it  was  im- 
possible to  do  so  in  honor  ;  neither  did 
I  betray  it  bjT  so  much  as  a  look — at 
least,  not  willingly  ;  in  these  cases  there 
lies  generally  a  tacit  understanding, 
arising  one  knows  not  how  or  whence, 
and  I  think  you  have  understood  me. 
When  this  post  was  first  placed  at  my 
disposal,  my  impulse  was  to  reject  it. 
But  I  considered  it  well ;  and  I  saw 
that  it  might  present  a  solution  to  what 
seemed  a  hard  fate — prolonged,  inter- 
minable waiting — if  you  also  could  be 
brought  to  regard  it,  with  your  mother's 
approbation,  in  the  same  light.  And 
so  I  determined  to  lay  the  case  before 
you,  and  ask  you,  Caroline,  to  go  out  to 
India  with  me." 

She  was  a  little  agitated,  opening  her 
lips  to  speak  and  closing  them  again 
abruptly.     Her  color  went  and  came. 

"  I  wish  you  to  understand  fully,  be- 
fore deciding,  Caroline  ;  not  for  worlds 
would  I  induce  you  to  take  a  step  that 
might  result  afterwards  in  disappoint- 
ment. Therefore  try  and  realise  what 
I  am  about  to  say.  You  have,  I  pre- 
sume, some  notion  of  the  relative  value 
of  money — what  seven  hundred  a-year 
may    imply    as    to    ways    and    means. 


Y"our  mother's  income  is,  I  believe,  just 
five  hundred  per  annum  ;  mine  will  be 
seven  ;  but  then  money  goes  less  far  in 
India  than  at  home.  I  should  start 
with  a  few  hundreds  in  hand,  and  my 
salary  will  have  a  yearly  increase.  "Y\  e 
should  have  quite  enough  for  comfort,  a 
little  for  moderate  luxury." 

He  paused,  but  received  no  answer. 

"  Would  the  companion  venture  with 
me?" 

"  No,"  she  answered.  And  her  tone 
was  low  and  cold.     "  No." 

A  change,  like  a  blight,  passed  over 
his  features.  "  Think  again,  Caroline," 
he  said,  after  a  pause.  ''Reflect  upon 
it,  and  give  me  an  answer  later  in  the 
day." 

"  There  is  no  necessity.  I  should 
only  say  what  I  do  now — no." 

In  perfect  silence  they  walked  on 
some  yards.  Caroline  suddenly  quick- 
ened her  pace,  as  though  she  would 
have  quitted  him.  He  put  out  his 
hand  to  stop  her. 

"  Caroline,  have  you  fully  understood 
me?" 

"  I  imagine  so :  I  am  quite  sure  so. 
Quite  fully." 

"And  you  reject  me?" 

"  Don't  be  silly.  Reject !  Well,  then, 
— 3res ;  if  you  will  have  an  answer. 
Cousins  we  are,  and  cousins  we  must 
remain  ;  nothing  more." 

"  I  have  waited  long  to  say  this  ;  I 
could  not  speak  without  some  such  jus- 
tification as  that  which  now  offers.  You 
have  misled  me,  Caroline." 

"  What  will  you  say  next  ?  If  there 
has  been  any  misleading  in  the  matter, 
it  must  have  been  }rour  fancy." 

"  You  have  misled  me,  and  you  know 
it,"  he  reiterated,  too  earnest  to  heed 
the  signs  of  his  own  agitation.  "You 
have  been  misleading  me  all  along." 

"  Tom,  I  have  not.  I  dread  poverty, 
and  should  never  marry  to  encounter  it, 
so  how  could  I  mislead  you  ?  Don't 
make  a  spectacle  of  yourself;  I  hate 
scenes,  especialty  in  an  open  field." 

"  I  am  not  one  to  make  a  spectacle  of 
myself,"  he  rejoined,  with  sufficient 
calmness,  "  but — I  must  repeat  it  — you 
have  cruelly  misled  me.  Do  you  forget 
that  when  I  was  last  here,  you — ' 

"  Yes,  I  forget  all  about  it  and  I 
don't  wish  to  remember,"  she  heartlessly 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


75 


interrupted.  "  Why,  I'd  rather  he  turn- 
ed into  that  glove  of  yours  than  wed 
myself  to  poverty." 

"  Do  you  call  the  income  I  have  de- 
scribed poverty  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do  ;  dreadful  poverty  to 
marry  upon.  Where's  the  good  of  mar- 
rying at  all,  if  you  are  to  be  no  better 
off  than  before  ?  Seven  hundred  a-year, 
indeed  !  it  would  not  half  keep  me  in 
dress." 

"  Upon  what  income,  then,  would  you 
marry  ?  " 

"  Upon  as  many  thousands.  Not  a 
fraction  under." 

Partly  from  the  agitation  that  the 
moment  brought  to  her,  so  that  she 
scarcely  knew  what  she  said  or  did, 
partly  because  she  felt  herself  in  a  di- 
lemma which  half- frightened  her,  her 
manner  and  words  were  alike  repellent, 
while  her  heart  was  silently  beating 
with  its  love.  But  for  a  golden  vista 
already  dazzling  her  worldly  eyes,  Car- 
oline Kage  might  have  been  true  to 
love  and  herself,  and  gone  out  with  him. 
That  she  had  led  him  to  hope  in  a  man- 
ner unmistakable,  that  she  was  using 
him  miserably  ill,  her  mind  was  as  con- 
scious of  as  his.  Thomas  Kage  strug- 
gled to  be  his  own  calm  self,  and  if  his 
countenance  betrayed  its  sense  of  wrong, 
he  did  not  speak  it ;  and  thus  walking 
side  by  side  in  silence,  each  with  a 
bursting  heart,  they  reached  the  gate. 
Caroline  would  have  passed  in  hurriedly. 

"  Surely  you  will  not  leave  me  thus  ! " 
he  said,  with  emotion.  "  Do  you  know 
what  you  are  doing  for  me? — that  my 
life  henceforth  will  be  a  blighted  one  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  sorry  ;  I  hope  you  will 
soon  forget  me,  Tom,"  she  answered, 
her  voice  a  little  softening.  "  The 
sooner  the  better." 

"  What  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that  you 
are  heartless  ?  " 

Heartless  she  certainly  was  not,  in 
respect  to  having  loved  him.  But  she 
knew  the  safer  plan  now  was  to  appear 
so. 

"  I  cannot  help  it  if  you  do.  You 
should  never  have  thought  of  me  or 
come  near  me,  knowing  your  prospects 
were  what  they  are.  How  was  I  to 
know  ?  " 

"  Then  it  is  not  me  you  would  reject, 
but  my  want  of  sufficient  income  ?  Let 
me  lay  the  case  before  Mrs.  Kage,  and 


see  if  she   considers   it   an   insuperable 
bar." 

"  I  would  advise  you  not.  It  would 
be  a  waste  of  time.  Knowing  my 
mother  as  you  do,  you  must  be  aware 
that,  far  from  persuading  me  to  marry 
upon  a  small  income,  she  would  be  the 
first  to  stop  me.  That  is  not  to  the  pur- 
pose, however :  were  she  even  to  urge 
me  to  accept  you  for  my  husband,  I 
should  answer  her  as  I  have  answered 
you — I  will  not." 

"  So,  hope  is  to  go  out  for  me  thus ; 
now,  and  for  evermore  !  " 

"  Hope  never  ought  to  have  existed. 
Unless  you  could  offer  me  a  suitable 
home,  with  carriages  and  court-dresses 
and  opera-boxes  and  all  that,  you  might 
have  had  better  sense  than  to  think  of 
me.     Thomas,  I  cannot  help  saying  it." 

"  Does  happiness  lie  in  court-dresses 
and  opera-boxes,  think  you,  Caroline  ?  " 
he  sadly  asked,  his  pale  face  made  paler 
by  the  contrast  of  the  green  laurels. 

"  Yes,  of  course.  I  cannot  do  with- 
out them.  What  is  more,  I  shall  never 
be  induced  to  try." 

"  0  Caroline,  my  love,  let  me  pray  of 
you  not  to  deceive  yourself.  I  speak  for 
your  own  sake.  These  things,  unless 
your  heart  can  be  with  him  who  gives 
them,  will  turn  out  but  mocking 
shadows." 

"  Never  ;  for 'me.  I  was  born  to  pomp 
and  state  on  my  mother's  side,  as  you 
know.  Though  they  have  not  been  mine 
yet,  I  shall  not  love  them  less  when  they 
come." 

"  God  forgive  you,  Caroline,  for  play- 
ing me  false.  You  know  how  you  have 
led  me  on  from  the  first,  and  what  your 
manner  has  been  to  me.  The  sunshine 
of  my  life  goes  out  with  you." 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"  That  you  may  never  repent  this  day 
is  ray  earnest  wish  ;  hut  I  cannot  help 
sajTing  that  you  will,  in  all  probability, 
live  to  recall  it  with  pain.  A  woman 
cannot  heartlessly  jilt  a  man,  as  you  are 
about  to  jilt  me,  without  its  pressing 
sometimes  unpleasantly  on  her  memory. 
I  will  try  and  bear  in  silence,  wishing 
you  no  ill-will,  rather  praying  ever  that 
God  shall  bless  you." 

She  ran  in  doors  for  safety,  her  eyes 

filling  with  tears  as  she  went,  in  manner 

repellent  to  the  last.     It  was  well  to  go: 

|  had   she   stayed   another   moment,   she 


76 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


might  have  fallen  on  his  bosom  in  re- 
pentance. Thomas  Kage  looked  after  her 
with  yearning  eyes.  It  had  been  the 
turning-point  in  his  life;  the  turn  which 
so  many  must  pass  and  survive  :  all  green 
behind,  bright  hopeful  green,  as  a  mead- 
ow in  spring;  all  gray  henceforward,  a 
dull,  cheerless,  leaden  gray.  One  word  of 
his  had  been  apt :  if  ever  man  was  jilted 
in  this  world,  he  had  been  by  Caroline 
Kage. 

Luncheon  was  on  the  table  when  he 
entered,  and  Mrs.  Kage  in  the  fidgets. 
She  would  willingly  have  chained  him  bjT 
the  leg,  rather  than  that  he  should  be 
lingering  in  the  verdant  fields,  in  the 
sweet  summer  air  with  Caroline. 

That  young  lady,  gone  up  stairs  to  take 
off  her  bonnet,  came  down  with  a  serene, 
unconscious  lace.  Mrs.  Kage  approached 
the  table,  and  put  her  eyeglass  up. 

"  Cold  lamb  !  "  she  said.  «  Will  you 
save  me  the  trouble  of  carving,  Thomas? 
And  mind  you  make  a  good  luncheon  : 
it  must  be  millions  of  hours  since  you 
breakfasted." 

He  did  as  he  was  told  :  carved ;  and 
made  a  good  luncheon,  or  appeared  to  do 
so  :  Mrs.  Kage  was  not  one  to  take  much 
notice,  and  Caroline  seemed  occupied 
with  her  own  plate.  The  conversation 
turned  on  general  subjects,  partly  upon 
Mrs.  Garston,  upon  Sarah  Annesley  and 
her  new  home  in  London  :'  but  not  a  word 
did  he  say  further  of  himself  or  his  affairs. 
When  the  tray  was  removed,  and  Mrs. 
Kage  had  resumed  her  sofa,  her  fan,  and 
her  essence-bottles,  he  approached  her  to 
say  farewell. 

"  Are  you  going  now  ?  "  cried  Mrs. 
Kage. 

"  I  must,  indeed." 

"  I  understood  you  to  say  that  you 
might  stay  for  dinner." 

He  had  sail  something  of  the  sort — 
anticipating  a  different  answer  from  Car- 
oline. The  night  train  had  brought  him 
down ;  the  next  night  train  he  had  in- 
tended should  convey  him  back.  He 
would  take  the  first  that  started  now. 

"  I  am  anxious  to  get  back  to  town  : 
this  is  a  busy  time  at  Westminster. 
And  now  that  I  have  seen  you  and  Car- 
oline— " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence — if  it 
had  any  finish.  A  shake  of  Mrs.  Kage's 
delicate  hand,  faded  like  her  face,  and 
then  he  turned  to  Caroline. 


"  Am  I  to  say  farewell  ?  " 

So  he  had  not  given  up  hope,  even 
then?  The  low  tone  was  full  of  mean- 
ing, the  eyes  went  questioningly  out  into 
the  depths  of  hers. 

Only  for  a  moment.  She  turned  them 
away  with  a  hard  coldness,  and  put  out 
her  hand  with  a  grudging  air. 

"  Good-bye,  Thomas.  I  wish  you  a 
pleasant  journey." 

Was  it  said  in  mockery  ?  Ko,  but  he 
verily  thought  it.  The  front  door  closed 
after  him,  and  next  the  gate  between  the 
laurels. 

"There  never  was  any  comprehend- 
ing him,"  said  Mrs.  Kage,  languidly  re- 
freshing her  face  with  eau-de-Cologne. 
"Fancy  his  coming  all  that  immense  dis- 
tance, and  travelling  all  night,  to  stay 
but  an  hour  !  " 

How  long  Caroline  remained  motion- 
less at  the  window,  straining  her  eyes  on 
the  gate  Mr.  Kage  had  passed  through, 
she  heeded  not.  If  the  sunshine,  as  he 
said,  had  gone  out  of  his  heart,  very  bit- 
terly conscious  was  she  that  it  had  equally 
gone  out  of  hers.  In  his  departure,  in 
the  miserable  certainty  that  he  and  she 
were  finally  divided  for  ever,  there  came 
a  revulsionof  feeling.  Perhaps  for  a  few 
moments  Caroline  saw  things  in  their 
true  colors,  shorn  of  fancjr,  and  discerned 
the  superiority  and  the  worth  of  the  man 
she  had  thrown  away.  But  for  its  utter 
fruitlessness,  she  might  have  stretched 
out  her  repentant  arms  with  the  cry  that 
had  once  before  broken  from  her  lips  ; 
"  0  mj7  love,  my  love,  come  back  to  me  !  " 

"  Have  you  lost  your  hearing,  Caro- 
line?" demanded  Mrs.  Kage.  "  I  ask 
you  what  could  have  brought  the  young 
man  down  on  this  fhying  visit  ?  He  con- 
fessed he  had  no  business  at  Aberton  this 
time." 

The  direct  questions  recalled  Caroline 
to  existing  things.  She  roused  herself, 
but  did  not  answer. 

"  He  certainly  said  at  first  he  should 
be  happy  to  remain  to  dinner,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Kage.  "Kot  that  I  wanted  him  to, 
I'm  sure.  It  is  quite  disagreeable  to 
possess  a  sixteenth  cousin,  unhappily  of 
the  same  name,  who  takes  the  liberty  of 
popping  in  upon  you  at  all  hours  and 
seasons — this  is  the  third  time  he  has 
come.  But,  having  come,  what  has  he 
gone  flying  back  again  for  in  so  vast  a 
hurry  ?  " 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


77 


"  I  "believe  it  is  through  me  that  he 
has  gone,"  said  Caroline  in  a  low  tone, 
for  she  wished  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it,  and  of  something  else  besides.  "I 
offended  him,  and  it  sent  him  away." 

"  How  was  that  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Kage, 
putting  on  that  indifferent  drawl  in 
which  she  was  an  adept.  "  Adjust  this 
cushion  at  my  feet,  will  you,  Caroline  ?" 

"  He  has  had  a  place  in  India  offered 
to  him,"  said  Caroline,  sinking  her  voice 
and  disregarding  the  cushion.  "  He  said 
he  would  accept  it  if  I  would  go  out  with 
him."   • 

"  What  is  the  value  of  it  ?  "  eagerly 
responded  Mrs.  Kage,  as  she  leaned  for- 
ward, forgetting  her  languor  in  glowing 
mists  of  lakhs  upon  lakhs  of  rupees. 

"  Seven  hundred  a-year." 

Mrs.  Kage  fell  back  again.     "  0  ! " 

"  Seven  hundred  to  begin  with,  and 
rising  year  by  year  up  to  fifteen.  He 
thought  it  right  to  warn  me  that  money 
does  not  go  far  in  India." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Kage  sharply,  in 
the  pause  come  to  by  Caroline. 

"  I  ridiculed  it,  mamma." 

"  What  else  should  you  do,  child  ? 
That's  well.  I  always  thought  Thomas 
Kage  a  fool ;  he  has  just  proved  himself 
one." 

Caroline  took  up  a  ball  of  cotton  and 
tossed  it  dreamily,  as  though  her  thoughts 
were  far  away.  Mrs.  Kage  drew  her 
white  shawl  over  her  shoulders  and  re- 
sumed. 

"  Did  you  see  Mr.  Canterbury  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  left  the  letter  with  him. 
He  will  come  in  about  it  by  and  by." 

Mrs.  Kage  began  unscrewing  the 
stopper  of  her  smelling-salts,  an  obsti- 
nate stopper,  given  to  stick  in,  and  made 
no  remark. 

"  He  joined  me  as  I  was  leaving,  and 
walked  with  me  through  the  park,"  con- 
tinued Caroline,  breaking  the  pause. 

Mrs.  Kage  had  heard  this  so  often 
that  she  was  getting  a  little  irritated. 
For  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  tell 
whether  Mr.  Canterbury  meant  any 
thing  by  these  attentions  or  whether  he 
did  not. 

"All  shilly-shallying,  Caroline.  Mr. 
Canterbury  ought  to  speak  to  you." 

"  He  has  spoken.  As  we  stood  at  the 
Btile  that  divides  the  park  from  the  field, 
one  word  led  to  another,  I  suppose,  and 
he  asked  me  to  be  Mrs.  Canterbury." 


The  young  lady  spoke  with  listless 
apath}' ;  but  not  with  apathy  was  the 
intelligence  received.  The  Honorable 
Mrs.  Kage  could  be  roused  sometimes, 
though  it  took  a  good  deal  to  do  it. 

"  You  lucky  girl  !  To  be  provided  for 
in  this  splendid  manner  at  eighteen. 
How  delightful ! " 

"  Does  it  bode  good-luck  or  ill-luck  to 
receive  two  offers  of  mnrriage  in  one 
morning  ? "  dreamily  wondered  Caro- 
line. 

"Ill-luck!"  screamed  Mrs.  Kage. 
"  Ill-luck  to  be  made  the  mistress  of  a 
splendid  place  like  the  Rock  ! — of  un- 
limited wealth  ! — of  jewels  and  dia- 
monds !  You  happy  child!  You  will 
be  the  envy  of  the  world." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  mamma,"  said 
Caroline  ;  and  her  tone  certainly  did  not 
tell  of  happiness.  "I  had  not  used  to 
care  so  much  for  those  things  until  you 
talked  me  into  it.  Of  course  a  fine  es- 
tablishment is  desirable,  and  money  and 
jewels  are  desirable  ;  but — I  can't  tell." 

"  Desirable  !  "  broke  in  Mrs.  Kage  ; 
"  money  is  the  only  desirable  thing  in 
life  ;  I  know  it  to "  my  cost.  I  was  a 
simpleton,  and  married  for  love  :  married 
one  who  had  nothing  but  his  face  aud  his 
figure  and  his  scarlet  regimentals  ;  I, 
a  peer's  daughter.  He  was  a  perfect 
Adonis,  to  be  sure — and  you,  dear,  are 
the  very  image  of  him,  as  I  continually 
tell  you — but  one  can't  live  upon  beauty. 
And  what  were  the  wretched,  miserable, 
lasting  consequences  ?  Why,  that  I 
sunk  down  to  the  level  of  an  obscure 
officer's  wife  —  and  widow  —  and  was 
obliged  to  eke  out  my  paltry  bit  of 
money  as  I  best  could,  and  am  neglec- 
ted and  forgotten  by  those  of  my  own 
rank.  I  have  told  your  papa  many  a 
time  that  he  had  better  have  buried  me 
alive  than  run  away  with  me  :  and  so  he 
had." 

"  Still,  money  is  not  everything, 
mamma;  no,  nor  jewels  either;  and  I 
do  not  know  whether  they  will  compen- 
sate for  the  drawbacks  of  an  old  husband 
who  has  old  children.  I  wish  I  did 
know." 

"  Yes,  they  will,  Caroline,"  said  Mrs. 
Kage,  leaning  on  her  elbow  and  sniffing 
at  her  vinaigrette.  "  Believe  me.  It  is 
woman's  destiny,  unhappily,  to  grow  up, 
and  be  married ;  and  of  course  she  can't 
go  aside  from  it.  And  if  she  could,  she 
wouldn't.     Girls   have  exalted  notions, 


78 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


you  see,  as  to  a  married  life  ;  implanted 
in  them  at  their  birth,  I  think,  by  some 
spirit  of  contrariness,  for  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  how  else  they  come.  To 
their  notion,  it  seems  a  sort  of  celestial 
Paradise,  and  all  they  think  of  is,  how 
to  get  in,  never  reflecting  that,  once  in, 
there's  no  getting  out — " 

"  There  it  is,  mamma." 

"  Let  me  finish.  I  say,  child,  it  is  a 
woman's  destiny  to  be  married,  just  as  it 
is  a  stray  sheep's  to  be  put  into  the 
pound  ;  but  I  do  assure  you  that  it  is 
not  of  the  very  slightest  consequence 
what  the  husband  may  be  :  youth  or  age, 
beauty  or  deformity,  stocked  with  intel- 
lect or  devoid  of  brains  ;  it  is  all  one, 
provided  he  has  a  deep  purse.  This  is 
the  one  only  thing  to  look  at.  Suppose  I 
had  had  a  heap  of  children,"  logically 
proceeded  Mrs.  Kage,  "  where  should  I 
have  been  !  Why,  in  the  workhouse  ; 
worse  off  than  any  poor  stray  lamb  in 
the  pound." 

Caroline  leaned  from  the  window,  and 
plucked  a  piece  of  clematis.  Her  moth- 
er resumed : 

"  I  repeat,  that  a  marriage  for  love  is 
the  most  miserable  fate  on  earth,  where 
a  good  income  does  not  accompany  it. 
I  married  for  love  myself,  and  I  ought 
to  know.  Your  dear  papa  said  I  worried 
him  into  his  grave  with  my  complaints  ; 
but  one  may  just  as  well  be  in  the  grave 
as  out  of  it,  where  the  money  is  lacking. 
As  to  love,  it  is  the  most  wearisome 
Darby-and-Joan  kind  of  thing  you  can 
imagine,  enough  to  give  one  the  cold 
shivers." 

"  He  wears  a  wig,"  grumbled  Caroline, 
reverting  ro  her  own  grievances,  as  they 
ran  one  after  another  through  her  mind. 

"  The  most  enchanting  wig  I  ever  saw, 
dear  :  no  living  soul  could  tell  that  it's 
not  growing  hair.  It  is  so  beautifully 
blended  with  his  own — of  which  he  has 
a  full  crop  behind — that  a  French  coif- 
feur, with  all  his  artistic  skill,  could  not 
tell  where  the  hair  ends  and  the  wig  be- 
gins." 

"  But  it  is  a  wig,"  argued  Caroline. 

"  Whether  it's  a  wig,  or  whether  it  is 
not,  it  will  not. add  to,  or  take  from,  do- 
mestic felicity." 

Caroline  Kage  raised  her  eyebrows. 
"  Domestic  felicity,  and  old  Father  Can- 
terbury ! "  irreverently  thought  she. 
Involuntarily,  another  form  rose  to  her 


mind,  in  connection  with  that  word  :  one 
she  had  just  watched  out  of  sight. 

"  Does  he  take  it  off  at  night  ?  " 

"  Take  off  what  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Kage, 
in  momentary  forgetfulness  of  their  sub- 
ject. 

"  The  wig,"  irritably  explained  Caro- 
line. "  If  he  does,  and  I  see  his  bald 
head,  I  shall  scream  frightfully." 

"  My  dear  child,  let  your  thoughts 
centre  upon  the  enormous  wealth  that 
will  be  yours,  not  upon  a  perishable  wig," 
said  Mrs.  Kage,  refreshing  her  face 
again. 

"  I  wish  I  knew,  I  wish  I  knew," 
murmured  Caroline  in  a  low  tone,  but 
her  mother  caught  the  words. 

"  Knew  what  ?  " 

"  Whether  it  will  be  for  good  or  for 
ill." 

Could  it  have  been  that  her  guardian 
angel  was,  even  then,  warning  her  from 
this  marriage  ?  A  very  powerful  in- 
stinct against  it  had  arisen  in  her  heart. 
Caroline  hid  her  ej^es  in  her  hands,  and 
strove  to  see  what  she  had  best  do — it 
was  not  yet  too  late.  Had  she  been  in 
the  habit  of  seeking  for  a  Guidance  that 
cannot  fail,  she  would  have  sought  it 
then  ;  but  she  never  had  been.  The 
Honorable  Mrs.  Kage  had  taught  her 
how  to  enter  a  ballroom  gracefully,  had 
shown  her  how  to  win,  by  deception  if 
need  were,  the  favor  of  desirable  men  ; 
but  that  other  kind  of  tuition  had  been 
utterly  passed  over.     Poor  Caroline  ! 

Mrs.  Kage  looked  at  her  with  a  kind 
of  hungry  keenness,  scarcely  assured  yet; 
and  sprinkled  half-a-dozen  essences 
abroad  at  once. 

"  Was  he  all  rapture,  dear?" 

"  Who  ?  "  cried  Caroline,  starting 
from  her  reverie,  and  a  burning  blush 
diffused  itself  over  her  face. 

"  Mr.  Canterbury." 

"  0  !  "  was  the  slighting  comment,  for 
the  question  had  certainly  borne  another 
reference  in  her  mind.  "  Why  should 
Mr.  Canterbury  be  in  a  rapture  ?  " 

"  When  you  accepted  him,  dearest." 

"I  did  not  accept  him." 

Mrs.  Kage  half  raised  herself,  looked 
at  Caroline  with  open  mouth,  and  then 
fell  back  in  a  flood  of  tears,  bemoaning 
her  hard  fate,  and  her  daughter's  folly  in 
having  rejected  the  Pock.  She  had  al- 
ready been  anticipating  a  large  share  of 
its  magnificent  comforts. 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


79 


"A  mansion  fit  for  a  king  ;  carriages 
ab  command  ;  servants  in  numbers  ;  lux- 
urious pineries,  and  hothouses,  and  con- 
servatories ;  wines  from  every  part  of 
the  known  wrorld  ;  delicacies  served  on 
silver  and  gold  ;  and  a  banker's  book  that 
has  no  end  ! — 0  Caroline  !" 

Caroline  pushed  her  hair  off  in  a  heat, 
and  looked  rather  defiant.  This  upset 
Mrs.  Kage. 

"  She's  a  regular  chip  of  the  old 
block!"  cried  that  lady,  going  into  a 
frightful  passion.  "  Her  father  was  one 
of  the  fools  of  the  world,  and  she  takes 
after  him.  I've  said  so  twenty  times. 
Go  after  that  miserable  Tom  Kage,  you 
ungrateful  girl !  Be  off  to  India  with 
him  !  Live  in  barracks,  or  starve  !  what 
shall  I  care  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  necessity  to  put  yourself 
out,  mamma,"  coolly  spoke  Caroline. 

"  The  purple  and  fine  linen  she  might 
have  indulged  in  ! — the  opera-boxes  and 
Richmond  fetes  ! — the  delights  of  a  Lon- 
don season — the  presentation  at  Court  in 
feathers  and  pearls.  And  to  give  it  all 
up  for  Thomas  Kage,  the  low-born!" 

"  I  said  that  I  rejected  Mr.  Kage." 

"You  said  as  well  that  you  had  reject- 
ed Mr.  Canterbury.  Yah  !  How  dare 
you  answer  me  ?  " 

"No,  I  did  not,"  calmly  went  on  Car- 
oline. "  I  said  I  had  not  accepted  Mr. 
Canterbury.  I  suppose  I  should  have 
done  so  had  there  been  time  ;  but  Thom- 
as Kage  came  up  at  the  moment  while  I 
was  hesitating.  We  were  standing  with 
our  backs  this  way,  and  never  saw  him 
until  he  was  close." 

Away  went  Mrs.  Kage's  sobs.  "  Dear- 
est, darling  child,  why  did  3-ou  not  say 
so  at  first  ?  My  own  love  ;  you  will  ac- 
cept him  ?  " 

Caroline  knitted  her  brows.  I  sup- 
pose so.     I  don't  know  what  else  to  do." 

"  I  will  accept  him  for  you  to-night, 
my  dear,  and  tell  him  how  happy  you 
are  to  be  his  wife.     My  poor  nerves!" 

"  If  I  could  only  foresee  a  little  into 
the  future  !  "  exclaimed  Caroline,  her  face 
gloomy,  her  tone  miserably  doubtful. 
Mrs.  Kage  glanced  at  her  stealthily,  as 
she  threw  some  sweet  odors  about. 

"  My  sweet  dove  !  I  am  sure  you  did 
like  the  notion  of  this  grand  good  fortune. 
I  could  not  have  been  mistaken." 

"  Yes,  in  one  sense,"  answered  Caro- 
line, inwardly   conscious    that   she    had 


done  her  share  towards  leading  Mr.  Can- 
terbury on.     "  But  a  strange  foreboding 

that  will  not  bring  me  happiness  is  up- 
on me,  now  that  the  moment  for  decision 
has  come." 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  dear;" 
and  Mrs.  Kage  had  reassumed  all  her  af- 
fected languor.  "  De-lighted.  Things 
all  turn  out  and  go  by  contrary.  Winn 
I  had  given  your  poor  papa  the  promise 
to  have  him,  in  spite  of  everybody — and 
an  idiot  he  was  for  asking  it.  knowing 
what  his  paltry  income  was — I  was  all 
in  a  glow  of  rapturous  anticipation.  My 
marriage  resulted  in  disappointment; 
youts  will  bring  everything  that's  good. 
I  foresee  it,  dear." 

"  If  I  do  have  Mr.  Canterbury,  I 
should  like  to  be  master  and  mistress." 

"  0,  to  be  sure,  sweetest.  He  is  ex- 
cessively good-natured,  and  jour  wishes 
will  be  his.  I  should  have  liked  to  see 
your  dead  papa  attempt  to  contradict 
mine  ! " 

"  I  don't  allude  to  him.  Of  course  I 
shall  do  all  I  like,  as  far  as  he  goes.  I 
spoke  of  the  Miss  Canterburys.  Suppose 
Olive  should  try  to  domineer  over  me  ? 
I  would  not  stand  it." 

The  notion  of  Olive  Canterbury's  at- 
tempting to  domineer  over  her  father's 
wife  so  tickled  Mrs.  Kage,  that  she  laugh- 
ed till  she  upset  her  choicest  essence- 
bottle. 

"  To  think  of  the  inexperienced  goose 
jTou  are,  dear  Caroline  !  You  will  be  sim- 
pl}x  a  queen,  and  exercise  a  queen's  will. 
As  to  Mr.  Canterbury's  daughters,  1  will 
take  care,  once  you  are  installed  at  the 
Rock,  that  another  home  is  found  for 
them." 

"  Mamma  !  "  exclaimed  Caroline,  half- 
startled  at  the  semi-promise. 

"Yes,  yes,  dear,  it  will  be  all  right; 
rely  upon  me.  My  respected  father,  Lord 
Gunse,  always  said  what  a  talent  I  had 
for  diplomacy." 

And  the  Lord  Gunse's  honorable 
daughter  fell  back  in  easy  complacency 
on  her  sofa,  and  gathered  up  the  fallen 
essence-bottle. 

Scarcely  knowing,  certainly  not  heed- 
ing, which  way  he  took,  Thomas  Kage, 
leaving  the  house  and  his  hopes  behind 
him,  had  turned  into  the  narrow  privet- 
walk.  The  sun  shone  still  on  the  world, 
but  for  him  it  seemed  to  have  set  for  ever. 


80 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


Only  those  who  have  passed  through  the 
ordeal  can  tell  what  that  awful  moment 
of  awaking  was  to  him.  The  heart  had 
had  its  best  life  crushed  out  of  it ;  it  had 
been  withered  with  the  cruel  blow. 

Winding  round  between  the  close 
hedges,  when  he  was  halfway  through 
the  confined  walk  he  came  face  to  face 
with  Millicent  Canterbury.  So  entirely 
was  he  buried  in  the  moment's  anguish, 
that  at  first  he  positively  did  not  recog- 
nise her.  Millicent  stopped,  half-scared  ; 
scared  at  what  she  saw  on  his  counte- 
nance. 

A  few  hurried  words  ensued — an  apol- 
ogy for  not  being  able  to  call  at  the 
Rock  ;  an  intimation  that  he  was  hasten- 
ing away  to  catch  a  London  train  ;  and 
Mr.  Kage,  lifting  his  hat,  passed  on, 
leaving  Millicent  gazing  after  him,  a 
wondering  surprise  on  her  face,  a  sense 
of  blank  disappointment  in  her  heart. 

"  What  can  be  amiss  ?  "  she  said  aloud. 
"  He  looks  like  a  man  stricken  for  death." 


CHAPTER  X. 


COMING     HOME. 


In  his  fine  library,  its  walls  lined  with 
valuable  books,  and  its  appointments  fit 
for  a  royal  potentate,  paced  George  Can- 
terbury. The  light,  lingering  still  in  the 
western  sky  after  the  sun  went  down, 
cast  its  soft  brightness  on  the  room 
through  the  beautiful  painted  window  at 
the  farther  end,  imparting  a  red  glow  to 
the  still  handsome  face  of  the  room's 
master,  so  that  he  looked  heated.  Per- 
haps he  was:  the  day  had  been  sultry; 
Mr.  Canterbury  had  just  dined,  and  the 
flush  might  have  been  more  than  surface- 
heat.  Besides,  there  were  other  causes  ; 
and  if  the  blood  coursed  on  faster  than 
ordinary,  it  was  only  natural  that  it 
should. 

George  Canterbury,  turned  sixty,  had 
made  an  offer  of  marriage  that  day  to  a 
young  girl  of  eighteen.  He  called  in  at 
her  mother's  late  in  the  afternoon  to 
know  his  fate,  and  was  accepted.  So  far, 
it  was  all  very  smooth  and  pleasant ;  but 
he  had  to  make  the  communication  to  his 
daughters,  and  that  was  less  so.  It 
ought  to  be  done  at  once,  and  he  was 
thinking  of  the  words  he  should  use,  and 


exactly  what  he  could  say,  as  he  paced 
there — something  after  the  manner  of  a 
schoolboy  who  cons  his  lesson. 

The  shades  in  the  room  grew  darker, 
and  a  servant  came  in  to  light  the  wax- 
candles  ;  but  he  found  himself  stopped. 
A  semi-darkened  atmosphere  is  less  em- 
barrassing to  make  a  disagreeable  com- 
munication in  than  a  broad  glare  of 
light ;  and  the  master  of  the  Rock  was 
conscious  of  it. 

"  Don't  light  up  yet,  John.  Go  and 
say  to  Miss  Canterbury  that  I  wish  to. 
see  her  here." 

Olive  came  in.  A  shivering  dread  lay 
within  her  of  what  she  was  going  to 
hear ;  but  nothing  of  it  appeared  in  her 
manner;  she  was  calm,  grand,  stately  as 
usual. 

"  Do  you  want  me,  papa  ?  " 
"Yes.  Sit  down,  Olive.  " 
Every  word  that  George  Canterbury 
had  been  rehearsing  went  clean  out  of 
his  head.  He  had  never  been  troubled 
with  nervousness  in  any  form  ;  but  it 
was  not  pleasant  to  have  to  tell  this  good 
and  grand  daughter,  who  was  herself 
turned  thirty,  and  for  many  years  the 
Rock's  entire  mistress,  that  he  was  about 
to  bring  home  a  young  wife.  Olive  sat 
down,  implicitly  obedient,  and  waited. 

He  imparted  the  news  somehow,  in 
rather  a  lame  fashion  ;  and  he  had  less 
trouble  than  he  expected  in  being  under- 
stood. Had  he  made  the  communication 
four  and  twenty  hours  earlier,  Olive 
Canterbury's  utter  surprise  and  shock 
would  have  discomposed  him ;  but  she 
had  now  been  warned  of  it. 

Never  a  word  did  she  utter  while 
he  spoke.  To  anyone  but  her  father 
she  would  have  remonstrated  against  so 
unsuitable  a  scheme,  and  not  spared  it 
condemnation  ;  but  to  him,  remembering 
the  duty  of  a  daughter,  she  remained  si- 
lent. She  could  not  praise  ;  she  would 
not  blame.  It  was  a  bitter  moment  in 
Olive  Canterbury's  life. 

"  Do  you  fancy,  sir,  that  this  can  pos- 
sibly bring  satisfaction  to  yourself?" 
she  asked  in  a  low  tone,  breaking  the 
painful  silence. 

"  Certainly  I  do,  Olive ;  there  can  be 
no  doubt  it  will." 

"  I — I  suppose  you  wish  me  to  under- 
stand that  the  measure  is  irrevocably 
fixed  upon,  not  merely  one  that  you  con- 
template as  probable  ?  " 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


81 


"  Of  course  it  is,"  answered  Mr.  Can- 
terbury, in  the  rather  fractious  tone  that 
opposition  sometimes  induces  :  for  of  all 
men  living,  none  bore  opposition  less 
well  than  George  Canterbury.  His 
temperament  was  the  most  yielding  in 
the  world,  and  to  be  crossed  troubled  him. 

"  Should  I  have  sent  for  you  to  tell 
you  this,  Olive,  had  it  not  been  irrevoca- 
bly fixed?     We  shall  be  married  direct- 

ly." 

There  was  nothing  further  to  be  said 
then.  Olive  tried  to  falter  out  some 
words  of  congratulation,  of  hope  for  his 
future  happiness;  but  they  froze  on  her 
tongue,  and  her  dry  lips  refused  to  speak 
them.  She  was  glad  to  escape  from  the 
room  ;  Mr.  Canterbury  was  not  less  glad 
that  she  should. 

"  Well,  what  were  you  wanted  for?" 
was  the  salutation  that  greeted  Miss 
Canterbury,  when  she  returned  to  her 
sisters  in  the  lighted  drawing  room  ;  and 
it  was  Mrs.  Dunn  who  spoke  it.  "  What 
news  have  you  heard?" 

"  The  worst  news  possible  to  be  heard  ; 
the  news  you  prepared  us  for  to-da}r, 
Lydia,"  was  Olive's  reply,  as  she  sank 
into  a  seat  stunned  and  miserable. 
"  Caroline  Kage  is  to  take  my  dead 
mother's  place." 

"  I  told  you  so,"  was  Lydia  Dunn's 
answer.  And  there  was  actually  a  kind 
of  complaisant  satisfaction  in  her  tone — 
not  at  the  doubtful  blow  being  true,  but 
at  her  own  clear-sightedness  in  finding 
it  out. 

Jane  Canterbury  turned  her  head 
from  the  light  with  a  faint  moan  ;  Milli- 
cent  dropped  her  face  on  the  table  amidst 
her  sewing-silks,  and  burst  into  tears; 
Mrs.  Dunn,  on  the  contrary,  advanced 
full  into  the  rays  of  the  chandelier,  and 
stood  upright,  angry,  indignant. 

"  Do  not  meet  it  in  this  spirit,  girls  ; 
show  3'our  dignity,  if  ^ou  possess  an}\ 
I  presume  you  stood  up  for  your  rights, 
Miss  Canterbury  ?  '*' 

"  What  rights  ?  "  returned  Olive,  too 
utterly  prostrated  to  retain  her  usual 
self-possessed  good  sense. 

"  What  rights  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Dunn 
in  a  taunting  tone,  for  she  had  no  no- 
tion of  people's  yielding  to  ill-fortune. 
"  Well,  that  is  a  pertinent  question  !  " 

But  Olive  could  not  retort;  Mrs. 
Dunn  saw  it,  and  made  the  best  of  it. 

"  Has  it  not  occurred  to  you,  Olive, 
5 


that  you  ought  to  have  an  explicit  un- 
derstanding with  your  father?  —  that 
your  privileges  and  your  sisters'  liberties 
and  comforts,  as  daughters  of  this  house, 
must  remain  intact,  secure  from  the  ca- 
pricious control  of  any  interloper?  Did 
you  say  this  ?  " 

"  Lydia,  I  could  not  say  it  !  " 

"  I  see  I  must  act  for  you  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Dunn  with  condescending  patron- 
age. "  I  did.  think  you  were  strong- 
minded,  Olive." 

"  So  did  I,"  said  poor  Olive,  "  until 
this  came." 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Dunn — a  hard  woman 
by  nature — could  not  understand  or  real- 
ize to  herself  what  a  blow  this,  their  fa- 
ther's marriage,  was  to  the  unwedded 
daughters  of  the  house.  She  had  quit- 
ted home  and  home-ties ;  she  had  her 
dwelling  and  her  interests  away;  her  fa- 
ther and  the  Rock  no  longer,  so  to  say, 
belonged  to  her ;  but  she  was  quite 
ready,  in  her  domineering  spirit,  to 
make  their  cause  hers.  She  thought  it 
was  her  mission  to  put  the  world,  includ- 
ing Mr.  Canterbury,  to  rights  when  it 
wanted  it ;  and  she  liked  amazingly  the 
anticipated  battle. 

The  library  was  lighted  when  she  en- 
tered, and  George  Canterbury  sat  in  his 
evening  spectacles  (which  had  double 
glasses),  calmly  reading  the  county  pa- 
per. To  see  his  self-asserting  daughter 
L}Tdia  come  in,  pushing  back  the  door 
with  an  air  of  authority,  acted  on  him 
as  a  kind  of  shock.  He  had  hoped  the 
unpleasantness  of  the  matter  was  over  ; 
and  he  had  always  been  rather  afraid  of 
positive  Lydia. 

"  Sir,  this  is  a  startling  communica- 
tion you  have  made  to  Olive,"  she  be- 
gan, not  choosing  to  hint  at  any  previous 
suspicions  of  her  own.  "  Can  it  possi- 
bly be  true  ?  " 

Mr.  Canterbury  fidgeted  the  least  in 
the  world,  so  far  as  slightly  to  ruffle  the 
leaves  of  the  journal,  and  intimated 
that  it  was  true.  Lydia  had  taken  up  h?r 
station  right  in  front  of  him,  at  a  few 
paces'  distance. 

"  What  is  to  become  of  my  sisters  ?  " 

"  Become  of  them  !  "  repeated  Mr. 
Canterbury,  holding  the  paper  before  his 
face,  as  if  still  perusing  it.  "  In  what 
way  ?  " 

'•  I  put  myself  out  of  the  discussion 
altogether,  having  my  own  home — which 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


I  shall  very  soon  return  to  now,"  contin- 
ued Mrs.  Dunn  decisively.  "  But  they 
have  no  other  home  to  retire  to,  sir." 

"  They  do  not  require  any  other." 

"As  soon  as  you  marry,  it  will  he 
your  wife's  home,  not  theirs." 

"  Absurd  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Canterbury. 
"  If  I  chose  to  bring  home  four-and- 
twenty  wives  there  would  be  room  for 
your  sisters  then." 

"  In  point  of  space  there  might  be. 
But  young  wives  are  given  to  be  domi- 
neering, and  Miss  Kage  may  take  a 
fancy  for  indulging  in  it.  How,  in  that 
case,  could  they  remain  at  the  Rock  ? 
There's  no  sa}Ting,  indeed,  what  extent 
of  putting-upon  Jane  might  bear ;  but 
Olive " 

"  This  is  uncalled-for,  Lydia,"  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Canterbur}',  rising  in  sur- 
prise, and  facing  his  daughter.  "  Miss 
Kage  is  of  amiable  nature ;  she  and 
they  are  on  intimate  and  affectionate 
terms,  as  you  know.  Those  terms  will 
be  only  cemented  by  a  closer  union." 

Never  had  Lydia  Dunn  a  greater 
mind  for  anything  in  her  life  than  to 
tell  her  father  he  was  a  fool  for  thinking 
so.  Looking  at  him,  she  wondered 
whether  any  remonstrance  or  reasoning, 
possible  to  be  urged,  could  arrest  this 
most  unsuitable  and  wild  project;  and 
she  decided  that  it  would  not.  It  had 
not  been  Lydia,  however,  if  she  had 
kept  her  tongue  quite  silent. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  papa — I  cannot 
help  speaking.  Caroline  Kage  is  so 
young,  that  she  might  be  your  grand- 
daughter ;  if  you  many  her  you  will  be 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  whole  coun- 
ty." 

George  Canterbury  felt  grievously  of- 
fended. 

"  It  is  not  your  place  to  say  these 
things  to  me,  Lydia.  As  to  Caroline's 
age,  that  is  a  matter  solely  for  her  con- 
sideration and  mine." 

"  You  had  a  great  deal  better  marry 
Mrs.  Kage." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  spoke  stiffly.  "  I 
think  you  have  said  nearly  enough, 
Lydia." 

Convinced  that  whatever  she  said 
would  do  Uo  good  towards  arresting  the 
marriage,  Lydia  thought  perhaps  she 
had.  She  returned  to  the  subject  of  her 
sisters. 

"  Will  you  promise — will  you  under- 


take that  my  sisters'  home  shall  not  be 
rendered  unhappy? — that  the}'  shall  be 
as  free  and  independent  in  it  as  they 
have  been  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  will,"  responded  Mr. 
Canterbury.  "  You  must  have  taken 
up  very  strange  ideas  to  fear  otherwise." 
"  No,  sir,  the  ideas  are  quite  natural. 
There  will  probably  be  two  antagonistic 
powers  in  the  house,  once  Caroline  Kage 
enters  it.  Olive  has  been  its  mistress 
hitherto  :  and  her  own." 

"  She  can  be  mistress  of  herself  and 
all  else  as  much  as  she  has  been,"  hasti- 
ly spoke  Mr.  Canterbury.  "  Except,  of 
course,  in  the  matter  of — of  housekeep- 
ing, and  that,"  he  added,  his  thoughts 
falling  on  domestic  matters.  "  Olive 
must  resign  her  control  over  the  house- 
hold." 

"  Olive  will  not  expect  to  retain  it,  sir, 
when  you  put  a  wife  at  its  head.  I 
speak  of  my  sisters'  personal  interests. 
Will  they  be  allowed  the  perfect  free- 
dom of  action,  the  comfort,  the  uncon- 
trolled liberty  of  themselves  and  their 
time,  that  they  have  hitherto  posses- 
sed ?  " 

"Yes,  certainly  they  will.  What 
should  hinder  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Canterbury  stared  in  a  little  sur- 
prise as  he  put  the  question.  He  was 
by  no  means  a  clear-sighted  man :  the 
old  saying,  of  not  seeing  an  inch  beyond 
the  nose,  would  have  aptly  applied  to 
him.  He  fully  believed  his  daughters 
would  be  just  as  free  and  happy  when 
Caroline  came  home  as  they  were  now  ; 
and  he  deemed  Lydia  most  unreasona- 
ble to  suggest  otherwise  ;  thinking,  in- 
deed, that  she  must  be  doing  it  for  the 
sake  of  cavilling. 

"  I  will  say  no  more,  papa,  except  to 
remind  you  that  things  in  similar  cases 
have  been  known  to  turn  out  quite  dif- 
ferently from  pleasant  expectations.  I 
foresee  that  they  may  in  this  ;  and  I 
hope,  shou-ld  it  be  so,  you  will  remember 
your  promise  to  take  care  of  the  comfort 
and  happiness  of  Olive  and  her  sisters." 
"  The  girl  must  be  a  little  off  her 
head  to-night,"  said  George  Canterbury 
to  himself,  as  Lydia  went  out  and  left 
him  alone. 

"  No  hope,  no  redress  !  "  she  exclaim- 
ed when  she  returned  to  her  sisters  ; 
and  she  flung  up  her  hands  in  temper  as 
she  spoke.     "  He  is  going  to  make  an 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


83 


idiot  of  himself,  and  won't  be  stopped  in 
it ;  and  Caroline  Kage  will  soqu  be  mis- 
tress of  the  Rock." 

The  year  had  grown  later  ;  the  brown 
and  red  tints  of  autumn  were  spreading 
in  the  foliage,  imparting  that  wondrous 
beauty  to  Nature's  landscape  that  the 
other  seasons  lack. 

Not  in  their  own  pleasant  morning- 
room,  but  in  the  great  magnificent  draw- 
ing-room, were  gathered  the  unmarried 
daughters  of  George  Canterbury.  They 
sat,  as  may  be  said,  in  state,  awaiting 
the  return  home  of  the  bridegroom  and 
bride  after  their  honeymoon.  In  state, 
so  far  as  the  room  went,  but  they  were 
at  their  ordinary  occupations.  Miss 
Canterbury  and  Jane  wore  silks  of  a 
violet  hue ;  Leta  had  on  a  charming 
pink  of  some  fancy  material. 

After  a  few  days  given  to  their  natu- 
ral repugnance  and  grief  when  the  com- 
munication was  first  made  to  them,  to 
the  bitter  heartache  than  which  nothing 
could  be  keener,  the  Miss  Canterbury's 
resigned  themselves  to  what  they  could 
not  prevent,  and  made  the  best  of  mat- 
ters with  outward  cheerfulness  and 
grace.  Not  so  Mrs.  Dunn.  She  prided 
herself  upon  being  independent,  upon 
"  showing  what  she  thought,"  and  went 
back  to  London.  Simpering  Mrs.  Kage, 
with  her  own  peculiar  taste,  expressed 
her  wonder  to  Lydia  that  she  did  not  re- 
main to  "  assist"  at  her  father's  wedding. 
Mrs.  Dunn  bluntly  answered  that,  of 
the  two,  she  thought  she  would  rather 
assist  at  his  funeral. 

The  marriage  took  place  in  August ; 
so,  you  see,  no  time  was  lost.  Mrs. 
Kage  never  was  free  from  an  inward 
fear  that  Caroline  might  retract  her  con- 
sent yet,  and  hurried  it  on  at  least  in  an 
equal  degree  with  the  fond  bridegroom 
elect.  She  got  up  a  charming  little  fable 
that  Thomas  Kage  had  fallen  in  love 
with  some  London  lady  of  fortune,  to 
whom  he  was  about  to  be  united,  and  re- 
peated it  (with  a  vast  many  confirma- 
tory details)  for  the  edification  of  Caro- 
line. But  Mrs.  Kage  need  not  have 
feared  ;  Caroline  had  no  thought  of  re- 
tracting. Like  a  child  dazzled  by  the 
glitter  of  a  coveted  toy,  she  was  eager 
for  it. 

Mrs.  Kage  showed  her  sense  and  craft 
in  one  respect— she  caused  the  wedding 


to  be  almost  a  private  one.  When  some- 
thing was  said  about  who  should  give 
the  bride  away,  Mr.  Canterbury  suggest- 
ed, as  was  but  natural,  her  only  living 
relative  on  the  father's  side — Thomas 
Kage.  Mrs.  Kage  did  not  accept  the 
suggestion  ;  she  wrote  a  pretty  note  to 
Mr.  Carlton  of  Chilling  Hall,  and  he 
undertook  the  office.  The  day  of  the 
wedding  was  kept  private,  the  hour 
fixed  for  it  was  the  early  one  of  nine  in 
the  morning,  and  the  church  had  no 
spectators.  The  Miss  Canterburys  coun- 
tenanced it  by  their  presence  ;  Millicent 
was  bridesmaid;  Mr.  Rufort,  the  new 
rector,  performed  the  ceremony.  There 
was  a  simple  breakfast  at  Mrs.  Kage's,  to 
which  all  sat  down  except  the  two  elder 
Miss  Canterburys,  who  drove  straight 
home  from  church  ;  and  then  the  happy 
pair,  as  announced  by  the  local  news- 
papers in  newspaper  phraseology,  started 
on  their  tour  for  the  Lakes,  to  enjoy  the 
honeymoon. 

It  was  October  now.  The  honej-moon 
was  over,  and  a  good  long  honej'moon  it 
had  been ;  and  it  was  to  be  hoped  they 
had  enjoyed  it.  The  "  happy  pair " 
were  expected  home  to-day,  after  their 
six  weeks'  absence.  Everything  was  in 
readiness  to  receive  them.  The  Miss 
Canterburys,  knowing  that  all  was  com- 
plete and  in  order,  sat  in  the  state  draw- 
ing-room, quietly  pursuing  their  ordi- 
nary occupations.  Like  right-minded 
ladies  as  they  were,  they  were  prepared 
to  render  due  honor  and  deference  to 
their  father's  wife. 

But,  as  Judith,  one  of  the  house- 
maids at  the  Rock,  remarked  to  a  help- 
mate, it  was  "  hard  lines  "  for  them.  No 
doubt  of  that ;  a  great  deal  of  heart- 
schooling  discipline  was  requisite  still. 

"Leta,  how  you  keep  getting  up! 
Your  drawing  will  not  be  the  better  for 
it." 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Olive.  Things  seem 
to  be  so  strange  that  it  makes  me  rest- 
less. Suppose  I  should  forget  myself, 
and  call  her  Carry  !  " 

"  What  are  we  to  call  her  ?  "  sudden- 
ly wondered  Jane.  "  It  never  occurred 
to  me." 

"  Mrs.  Canterbury,  when  speaking  of 
her,"  said  Olive. 

"  But  when  speaking  to  her  ?  " 
"  I  don't  kriow.     Nothing.     It  would 
be  rather  ridiculous  to  say  '  Mamma,'  " 


84 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


and  Olive's  fine  face  took  a  momentary 
tinge  of  mockery — "  and  equally  out  of 
place  to  call  her  '  Caroline.'  There  is 
only  '  Mrs.  Canterbury,'  to  fall  back 
upon." 

"  Did  you  recollect  to  order  mamma's 
portrait  to  be  taken  out  of  tbeir  rooms, 
Olive  ?  "  asked  Leta. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  recollected  every- 
thing. It  is  removed  to  mine  ;  and  Ed- 
gar's is  also.  Mrs.  Canterbury  will  find 
all  things  as  they  should  be.  Listen  !  I 
really  believe  JSTeel  is  bringing  in  a  vis- 
itor !  " 

Olive  was  right.  The  butler,  speak- 
ing with  some  one  as  he  advanced,  threw 
open  the  door,  and  made  the  announce- 
ment: 

"  Mrs.  Kage." 

"What  an  oppressive  day  for  Octo- 
ber!" languidly  spoke  Mrs.  Kage,  as  she 
sank  on  the  nearest  sofa.  "  My  dears, 
how  are  you  ?  Do  place  me  a  screen, 
Millicent;  3'our  fire  is  like  a  volcano." 

She  took  off  her  bonnet  and  cloak  ; 
and,  pushing  back  her  shawl  of  black 
lace,  left  her  dress  displayed.  By  which 
dress  they  saw  she  had  come  intending 
to  remain  for  dinner. 

"  A  lovely  day,  though,  although  it  is 
close  :  quite  a  good  omen  for  the  return 
of  the  travellers.  My  dears,  I  heard 
from  your  mamma  this  morning.'' 

Olive  bit  her  lip,  partl}r  in  amusement. 
Your  mamma!  And  Caroline  more  than 
half-a-score  years  younger  than  herself." 

"  We  have  heard  also,  Mrs.  Kage. 
My  father  wrote.  They  will  be  at  home 
this  evening  to  dinner." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  I  came  up  about, 
for  one  thing;  all  the  morning  I  had  a 
nervous  headache,  or  should  have  been 
been  here  earlier  to  see  about  the  ar- 
rangements." 

"What  arrangements?"  inquired 
Olive,  in  surprise. 

"  My  daughter's  rooms,  and  so  forth." 

"  The  arrangements  are  made  :  the 
rooms  are  in  readiness,"   returned  Olive. 

"  My  dearest  Miss  Canterbury,  you 
have  no  doubt  done  to  the  best  of  y'our 
ability,  but  a  mother's  eye  can  alone  tell 
what  will  please  her  daughter. 

Olive  drew  herself  up.  "  I  trust  the 
arrangements  will  please  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury. I  should  like  her  to  see  that  we 
have  cared  for  her  comfort.  Should  she 
wish  any  alteration  made  in  the  rooms, 


she  can  give  her  own  orders  when  she 
sees  them." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  5  I  will  pres- 
ently go  through  them,  if  you  please, 
with  one  of  the  housemaids,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Kage,  whose  tone,  drawling  as  it 
was,  bespoke  quiet  resolution.  "  And 
now  about  dinner?  what  have  you  or- 
dered ?  " 

Miss  Canterbury  was  silent,  from  sheer 
amazement. 

"  Can  I  see  the  housekeeper  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Kage  !  "  uttered  the  astounded 
Olive,  "  I  do  not  understand  this.  The 
dinner  was  fixed  upon  some  hours  ago. 
It  will  prove  satisfactory  to  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury, I  have  no  doubt." 

"  I  know  what  my  dear  pet  likes;  and 
she  has  begged  me,  in  her  letter,  to  take 
care  that  things  are  comfortable  for  her." 

"  As  I  trust  they  will  be  found,"  said 
the  indignant  Olive,  whilst  Jane  stole 
out  of  the  room,  and  Millicent  bent  over 
her  cardboard  with  a  heightened  color. 
"  Should  there  be  any  particular  dish 
you  wish  added  to  the  dinner,  I  will  as- 
certain whether  it  can  be  done." 

"  I  will  see  the  housekeeper  myself, 
dear,"  persisted  Mrs.  Kage,  in  the  most 
gently-polite  tone  imaginable,  "  and  di- 
rect the  alterations  I  may  think  neees- 
saiy. " 

A  flash  of  Olive's  imperious  temper 
broke  out.  She  rose  from  her  seat,  not, 
however,  lifting  her  voice  to  anger, 
though  it  was  unmistakably  firm. 

"  I  have  been  mistress  of  the  house 
for  many  years,  Mrs.  Kage,  and  I  be- 
lieve I  have  been  found  capable  of  con- 
ducting it.  So  long  as  I  remain  so — 
which  will  only  be  until  the  coming 
home  of  Mrs.  Canterbury — I  am  in  no 
need  of  assistance,  and  cannot  permit 
interference.  The  dinner  must  be  serv- 
ed this  evening  as  I  have  ordered  it." 

"But  you  are  shockingly  rude,  my 
dear,  in  saying  this  to  my  face:  quite 
ill-bred." 

"  I  think  not.     I  do  not  wish  to  be." 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Canterbury's  mother." 

"  I  do  not  forget  it.  As  soon  as  Mrs. 
Canterbury  enters  the  house,  I  give  up 
all  authority  to  her ;  until  she  does,  I 
cannot  3-ield  the  smallest  portion  of  it, 
even  to  you.  Forgive  me  for  saying  I 
am  exceedingly  surprised  that  you 
should  wish  it." 

"  Well   my  dear  Miss  Canterbury,  in 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S     WILL. 


showing  this  obstinacy  in  regard  to 
your  new  mother  I  can  but  think  you 
stand  in  the  light  of  your  own  interests. 
However,  let  it  pass ;  as  you  say,  you 
have  but  an  hour  of  further  power;  it 
does  not  much  matter  for  that  short 
time." 

Olive  clenched  her  hand  on  the  beau- 
tiful table-cover,  keeping  down  her  pas- 
sion ;  Millicent's  brow  burnt  as  she 
turned  it — and  could  not  help  the  )ook 
it  bore  —  on  Mrs.  Kage.  That  lady 
glided  off  the  sofa. 

(i  And  now,  dears,  you  will  ring  for 
the  upper  housemaid.  I  will  visit  the 
rooms  and  see  what  changes  may  be  ex- 
pedient." 

"  No  !  "  spoke  Olive,  her  temper  flash- 
ing out  at  last.  "  The  rooms  shall  re- 
main as  they  are,  Mrs.  Kage,  until  your 
daughter  enters  into  possession  of 
them." 

Olive  meant  what  she  said,  and  Mrs. 
Kage  saw  it.  All  in  a  minute  a  doubt 
crossed  that  honorable  lad}'  whether  her 
policy  had  been  a  safe  one.  So  intense- 
ly afraid  had  she  been  ever  since  the 
marriage  that  perhaps  her  own  influ- 
ence at  the  Rock  might  not  be  what  she 
fully  purposed  it  should  be,  or  that  her 
daughter  might  find  her  sway  curbed  by 
the  imperious  and  powerfully  -  willed 
Miss  Canterbury,  that  she  had  come  to 
tne  resolution  of  taking  the  bull  by  the 
horns  and  bringing  her  authority  to 
bear  before  its  time.  A  sentence  in 
Mrs.  Canterbury's  letter,  hoping  things 
would  be  made  comfortable  for  her,  and 
that  her  mamma  must  see  they  were — 
though  it  is  more  than  probable  the 
writer  had  not  exactly  meant  in  the  way 
of  beds  and  tables,  and  dishes  for  din- 
ner— had  afforded  Mrs.  Kage  the  plea 
for  coming  up  as  she  did.  But  had  she 
been  quite  wise  in  doing  so  ?  In  the 
doubt  of  it  that  came  crossing  her,  she 
deemed  it  well  to  veer  suddenly  round 
to  sweetness,  and  so  disarm  hostilities. 

"  Pray  forgive  me,  my  darling  Miss 
Canterbury.  It  is  quite  an  anomalous  po- 
sition that  my  poor  child  will  be  placed 
in,  and  I  was  so  anxious  to  spare  you 
trouble.  If  yon  do  not  feel  the  different 
arrangements  as  a  worry,  why,  of  course, 
I  should  not  have  wished  to  interfere. 
Caroline  has  a  charming  temper,  I  as- 
sure you,  aud  I  feel  certain  you  will  all 
be  very  happy  together." 


"  I  desire  nothing  better  than  that 
we  should,  Mrs.  Kage,"  coldly  spoke 
Miss  Canterbury. 

Mrs.  Kage,  amiably  sweet,  sank  back 
on  the  sofa,  after  requesting  that  one  of 
the  lady's-maids  might  be  called  to 
carry  away  her  things.  Placing  her  fun 
and  her  various  bottles  on  a  small  stand 
beside  her,  for  she  never  went  out  with- 
out them,  she  flung  some  scent  about 
and  grew  confidential. 

"  Of  course,  my  dears,  you  are  women 
of  the  world.  At  least,  you  are,  my 
good  Miss  Canterbury ;  necessarily  so 
from  your  age  and  position.  Therefore 
I  may  speak  without  hesitation  all  the 
thoughts  of  my  heart.  To  marry  a  man 
of  Mr.  Canterbury's  years  was  a  great 
sacrifice  for  a  beautiful  girl  of  eighteen. 
It  is  of  no  good  mincing  the  fact. ;  some 
things  are  as  palpable  as  that  much- 
talked-of  problem  in  Euclid  about  the 
ass  and  the  bridge,  which  my  father,  the 
Lord  Gunse,  was  given  to  quote.  But  I 
am  quite  sure  Caroline  did  not  look 
upon  the  marriage  in  that  light ;  she 
did  not  see  it  as  a  sacrifice,  for  she  was 
in  love  with  your  father." 

Olive  made  no  reply.  She  began 
counting  the  stitches  in  her  netting. 

"  Adored  him,  I  may  say,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Kage,  improving  upon  her  tissue 
of  falsehoods.  "  A-dored  him.  I  saw 
it  from  nearly  the  first.  Of  course  I 
naturally  thought  she  would  be  averse 
to  such  an  offer  —  might  probably  not 
listen  to  it.  '  Now,  my  darling,'  I  said 
to  her  one  day,  '  there  cannot  be  the 
smallest  doubt  what  good  Mr.  Canter- 
bury's intentions  are;  but  let  me  im- 
plore of  you,  don't  allow  any  thoughts 
of  his  wealth  to  influence  you  ;  dis-conv- 
age  him  if  you  do  not  like  him.'  '  Dear- 
est mother,'  the  innocent  lamb  respond- 
ed, '  it's  not  his  wealth  that  will  influ- 
ence me,  but  himself;  I  love  Mr.  Can- 
terbury.' And  so,  when  I  hear  the 
impertinent  world  sa}'  that  my  daugh- 
ter's was  nothing  but  a  marriage  of  in- 
terest—  and  that  delightful  old  maid, 
Mr.  Carlton's  sister,  said  it  to  my  face 
only  yesterday  —  the  remembrance  of 
that  outspoken  avowal  of  Caroline's  acts 
on  my  mind  like  a  balm  of  comfort." 

"  I  think  your  daughter  could  not  have 
been  quite  indifferent  to  my  father's 
wealth,"  said  Olive,  wishing  the  balm 
extended    also  to  Mrs.  Kage's   tongue. 


86 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


But  she  did  not  wait  to  prolong  the  con- 
versation ;  she  left  the  room  on  the  plea 
of  seeing  after  Jane,  leaving  Leta  as 
hostess. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  your  sister  would  not 
say  it  if  she  knew  all,"  said  Mrs.  Kage 
to  Leta.  "Caroline  had  the  most  mag- 
nificent prospect  offered  to  her  of  going 
out  to  be  a  nabob's  wife  in  India.  And 
he  was  a  young  man." 

"  Indeed !  " 

"She  received  both  the  offers  in  one 
day.  Your  father's  first,  the  other's 
next.  He  came  miles  and  miles  and 
miles  to  make  it.  '  Give  up  Mr.  Can- 
terbury for  h im  !  '  she  said  indignantly. 
'  jSo  ;  not  though  he  could  offer  me 
all  the  rupees  contained  in  Bengal.' 
'  Quite  right,  my  sweet  love,'  I  replied 
to  her  ;  '  never  let  vile  gold  sway  your 
best  affections.'  And  I  say  she  was 
right." 

Leta  had  lifted  her  head ;  her  color 
was  going  and  coming.  Was  it  jjossible 
that  this  could  be  true  ?  Too  well  she 
knew  who  it  was  that  had  come  "  miles 
and  miles  and  miles "  that  past  day. 
Unconsciously  she  let  his  name  escape 
her — Thomas  Kage. 

"  Well,  yes,  it  was  Thomas  Kage,  my 
dear  Miss  Leta,"  confessed  the  wily 
lad}-,  a  little  taken  aback  at  Leta's  dis- 
cernment. "I  don't  mind  telling  you; 
but  you  m-ftSt  not  talk  of  it  again.  He 
began  to  love  Caroline  when  we  were  at 
Little  Bay  ;  /was  afraid  of  it;  but — ah 
— some  one  contrived  to  throw  me  off 
the  scent  then.  As  the  months  went  on, 
he  went  on,  loving  her  all  the  more  pas- 
sionately ;  and  as  soon  as  he  thought  he 
could  marry,  through  this  Indian  ap- 
pointment being  offered  him,  he  came 
down  to  ask  her  to  go  out.  Of  course 
she  said  '  No,'  Mr.  Canterbury  being  in 
the  way,  for  whom  she  had  learnt  to 
care,  you  see,  Miss  Leta ;  and  Tom 
Kage  went  away  with  a  broken  heart, 
/saw  that." 

A  distant  sound  of  carriage  -  wheels 
was  an  excuse  for  Millicent's  running  to 
the  window.  Her  face  had  turned 
white  aud  cold  as  snow  in  winter. 

Things  that  had  appeared  strange  to 
her  before  were  become  suddenly  clear. 
It  was  Caroline  Kage  he  had  loved ;  it 
was  Caroline  his  visits  had  been  intend- 
ed for,  not  her ;  and  Caroline  —  0,  it 
flashed  upon  her  all  too  surely  —  had 


only  been  fooling  her  in  prating  of  his 
love.  She — Caroline  herself — had  loved 
him  ;  and  Millicent  felt  half  sick  at  the 
thoughts  instinct  revealed  to  her.  Too 
well  she  comprehended  now  the  look,  as 
of  death,  on  Thomas  Kage's  face  when 
they  met  in  the  privet  walk ;  he  had 
then  been  given  up  for  the  wealthy  mas- 
ter of  the  Hock.  Just  as  the  bitterness 
of  awaking  had  been  his  then,  so  was  it 
now  Millicent  Canterbury's. 

The  sound  of  wheels  drew  nearer ; 
the  carriage  came  in  view,  its  four  horses 
prancing  gaily  up  the  park.  It  con- 
tained the  gay  bride  and  bridegroom  ; 
and  Leta  in  the  stir  escaped  to  her 
chamber. 

Caroline  was  looking  charming,  charm- 
ing as  a  summer  rose,  as  Mr.  Canterbury 
handed  her  out  of  the  carriage,  and  came 
in  with  her  on  his  proud  arm.  What- 
ever the  young  wife  had  found  the 
honey-moon,  dull  or  spiritless,  tame  or 
more  than  a  little  wearying,  he  had 
thought  it  rapture.  She  was  gay 
enough  now  in  meeting  them  ;  she  kiss- 
ed her  mother,  she  kissed  Olive,  she 
kissed  Jane;  she  asked  Neel  how  his 
wrist  was  (for  the  man  had  had  a  rather 
serious  accident  to  it  just  before  the 
wedding)  ;  she  nodded  to  John ;  she 
won,  in  fact,  all  hearts. 

"  But  where's  Leta  ?  " 

Ah,  where  was  Leta  ? 
bury  thought  Leta  had 
drawing-room  to  the  last  moment ;  Mrs. 
Kage  confirmed  it,  saying  Leta  had 
been  the  one  to  announce  to  her  their 
arrival.  Of  course  it  was  supposed  that 
Leta  would  turn-up  from  somewhere  ; 
and  the  pleased  young  wife  went  to  her 
rooms. 

She  did  not  see  Leta  until  just  before 
dinner.  Mrs.  Canterbury  was  turning 
out  of  her  boudoir  rather  swiftly,  in  the 
prettiest  white -silk  dress  that  young 
bride  ever  wore,  with  an  amethyst  neck- 
lace on  her  delicate  neck,  and  caught 
Leta  gliding  swiftly  by.  She  drew  her 
in. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Millicent, 
that  you  did  not  come  to  welcome  me  ?  " 

But  ere  the  question  could  be  answer- 
ed, Mrs.  Canterbury  obtained  a  better 
view  of  the  face  partially  turned  from 
her.  A  white  cold  face,  more  like  a 
face  of  terror  than  aught  else  ;  certainly 
one  that  had  a  great  deal  of  despair  in  it. 


Miss  Canter- 
been    in    the 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL, 


87 


"  Millicent,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Never  did  there  exist  a  more  straight- 
forward, open-natured  girl  than  Milli- 
cent Canterbury.  One  single  moment 
of  inward  battle  with  those  feelings  that 
seemed  as  if  they  had  been  outraged, 
insulted,  .deceived,  and  then  she  answer- 
ed, looking  full  at  the  surprised  ques- 
tioner. 

"  Mrs.  Canterbury,  I  have  been  think- 
ing in  my  room  whether  to  speak  to  you, 
or — or  to  bury  it  all  for  ever,"  said  poor 
Millicent  in  a  still  tone,  with  pauses  oc- 
casioned by  her  labored  breath.  This 
minute  alone  with  you  has  decided  it. 
You  did  me  a  great  wrong:  why,  when 
we  were  at  Little  Bay,  and  after  it — for 
months  after  it — why  did  you  feed  me 
with  the  fable  that  he  was  in  love  with 
me  ? — he,  Thomas  Kage  ?  " 

A  burning  rush  of  color,  fading  away 
into  a  ghastly  whiteness  ;  a  trembling, 
terrified,  glittering  stare  in  the  beauti- 
ful violet-blue  eyes  :  but  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury gave  no  other  answer. 

"  It  was  you  he  loved,"  continued 
Millicent.  He  thought  no  more  of  me 
than  of  the  idle  wind  that  passes.  You 
knew  it  all.  Why  did  you  deceive  me  ? 
Only  this  day — au  hour  ago — have  my 
eyes  been  opened.  What  had  I  done 
that  you  should  have  played  upon  me  so 
cruel  a  joke  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is  you  are 
talking  of,"  said  Mrs.  Canterbury,  find- 
ing her  tongue  and  her  self-possession  to- 
gether. "  I  remember  nothing  about 
Thomas  Kage,  or  you,  or  Little  Bay. 
For  goodness',  sake  don't  attack  me  un- 
necessarily, Leta." 

But  the  tone  had  a  hard,  shrill,  hys- 
terical ring  in  it,  proving  how  powerfully 
the  accusation  had  told  upon  her ;  and 
she  went  back  into  her  chamber  and 
shut  the  door  abruptly,  leaving  Millicent 
standing  there  in  her  bitter  pain. 


CHAPTER  XL 

1ST    THE    EVENING   PAPER. 

Thomas  Kage  sat  in  his  chambers 
in  the  Temple.  It  was  a  bright  after- 
noon in  August  (for  the  exigencies  of 
the  story  require  us  to  go  back  for  some 
weeks),  passing  rapidly  on  to  evening. 


All  the  world  had  gone  out  of  Louden 
except  Mr.  Kage:  he  could  not  well 
afford  a  holiday,  and  said  to  himself 
that  he  did  not  want  one. 

Seated  at  his  table  in  the  inner  room, 
whose  window  overlooked  the  Temple 
Garden,  and  the  river  winding  past  it, 
he  was  busy  perusing  some  papers. 
The  business  that  had  taken  him  to  Ab- 
erton  early  in  the  spring,  and  to  which 
an  interruption  occurred,  was  again  go- 
ing on.  It  was  not  entirely  connected 
with  his  profession  as  a  barrister,  but 
was  a  matter  he  had  taken  in  hand  pri- 
vately to  help  a  friend.  The  law-courts 
were  up,  Thomas  Kage  had  little  to  do 
publicly,  and  so  was  at  liberty  to  give 
his  time  to  this. 

He  sat  with  his  head  leaning  on  his 
hand,  thinking  that  very  shortly  he 
would  have  to  go  to  Aberton  again,  un- 
less his  friend,  Mr.  Rashburn,  came  up 
to  London.  He  did  not  care  to  go  to 
Aberton  ;  but  if  he  had  to  go,  should 
he,  or  should  he  not,  walk  over  to  Chill- 
ing, and  see  her  who  had  played  that 
havoc  with  his  heart  ? 

The  traces  of  the  conflict  he  had 
gone  through  since  that  fatal  June  day, 
only  two  months  past,  but  to  him  seem- 
ing like  an  age,  might  be  seen  in  his 
countenance.  The  cheeks  were  even 
thinner  than  before,  the  eyes  wore  a 
feverish  light,  the  voice  had  an  habitu- 
ally-subdued tone  of  sadness  in  it; 
signs  that  an  accurate  observer  may 
sometimes  note  in  one  who  has  gone 
through  an  ordeal  of  silent  mental  suf- 
fering. Perhaps  it  was  not  well — well 
for  his  resolve  of  forgetting  her — that 
ever  and  anon  some  foolish  thought  or 
proverb,  such  as,  AVhile  there's  life 
there's  hope,  should  dart  into  his  mind, 
and  leave  a  faint  ray  of  what  looked 
very  like  hope  behind  it.  While  she  re- 
mained Caroline  Kage,  and  unappropri- 
ated ;  while  there  existed  a  chance  — 
and  the  world  is  full  of  such  chances 
— that  he  should  work^  on  to  riches,  it 
seemed  not  absolutely  impossible  that 
brightness  might  succeed  to  the  dark- 
ness. 

Passionately  though  he  had  loved  her, 
perfect  as  he  thought  her,  he  had  not 
failed  to  see  that  she  had  used  him 
cruelly  ill ;  and  he  had  come  up  to  town 
that  June  day  calling  her  heartless. 
He  rejected  the  offer  of  going  to  India  ; 


83 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


he  set  himself  a  task  —  to  forget  her. 
But  as  the  weeks  went  on,  and  the  pain 
ever  racking  his  breast,  became  a  trifle 
less  keen,  or  perhaps  it  was  only  that  he 
grew  more  inured  to  it,  she  resumed 
some  of  her  old  ascendency  over  him, 
and  he  began  to  find  excuses  for  her. 
She  had  not  rejected  him  ;  at  least,  not 
of  her  own  free  will ;  her  mother  must 
have  forced  her  to  it.  And  so,  if  he  had 
to  go  to  Aberton,  it  might  be  a  question 
whether  he  should  not  go  on  to  Chilling; 
he  was  beginning  to  yearn  for  another 
sight  of  her  as  few  men  have  yearned 
for  anything  in  this  life.  One  fact  he 
was  very  certain  of:  he  knew  he  could 
not  be  mistaken  in  that — she  had  loved 
him  passionately,  with  all  her  heart. 
It  might  be — well,  yes,  it  might — that 
she  was  suffering  as  he  suffered  ;  and 
that  to  see  him  once  more  would  bring 
happiness  to  her  as  it  would  to  him. 

He  looked  up  at  the  bright  ray  of  sun 
slanting  past  the  window,  but  not  touch- 
ing it;  and  somewhat  of  the  same  bright- 
ness illumined  his  spirit. 

The  London  clocks  chimed  out  an 
evt  ning  chime,  and  Thomas  Kage  was 
working  on.  The  boy  came  in:  one  he 
shared  with  two  more  barristers,  both  of 
whom  had  gone  on  the  wing,  so  Mr. 
Kage  could  have  the  whole  of  him. 

"  It's  the  paper  come,  sir,"  he  said, 
putting  the  evening  journal  on  the  table. 

Mr.  Kage  nudded.  "  You  need  not 
wait,  James." 

No  need  for  a  second  dismissal.  The 
boy  said  good-evening  to  his  master,  and 
flew  off.  Mr.  Kage,  coming  to  the  end 
of  the  parchment  he  had  been  looking 
over,  thought  he  had  done  enough  for 
the  day,  and  put  the  dry  law  documents 
by  until  the  morrow.  Taking  up  the 
newspaper,  he  walked  to  the  window, 
holding  it  in  his  hand  while  he  looked 
out  on  the  busy  clamor  and  noise. 

The  gardens  were  alive,  so  to  say. 
With  the  rising  of  the  law-courts  a  week 
hack,  and  the  migration  of  the  barristers, 
leaving  the  Temple  to  emptiness  and 
Thomas  Carr  Kage,  the  large  gardens 
had  been  simultaneously  opened  for  a 
couple  of  hours  about  sunset  to  the  poor 
little  riff-raff  children  of  London.  From 
'  the  reeking  courts,  within  a  stone's  throw, 
they  came ;  from  the  miserable  haunts, 
lying  nearly  contiguous  to  St.  Clement 
Danes'    fine    church  ;    from    the    seven 


Dials  and  St.  Giles's  ;  from  the  unwhole- 
some stacks  of  buildings  on  the  Surrey 
side,  and  near  the  river :  on,  on  they 
trooped,  these  ill-fated  children,  making 
for  the  pleasant  grass-green  place  in  sure 
and  swift  bands,  something  like  that 
great  army  of  bearing-on  locusts,  that 
are  not  to  be  turned  aside  by  man,  so 
powerfully  described  in  the  prophecies  of 
Joel.  They  had  not  long  been  let  in  ; 
a  fine  crowd  of  them :  boys  and  girls, 
and  toddling  wee  things  and  babies  : 
scarcely  a  whole  garment  or  good  shoe 
amongst  them — only  rags  and  tatters  and 
dirt ;  and  with  it  all  merry  shouts  and 
light  laughter,  just  as  though  they  had 
been  the  favored  of  the  land,  and  slept 
on  cots  of  down  with  silken  curtains  of 
purple. 

How  they  enjoyed  that  freedom  on  the 
greensward ;  leaping,  tumbling,  rolling 
on  it !  How  careful  they  were  not  to  in- 
jure Mr.  Broom's  growing  chrysanthe- 
mums— for  they  had  been  warned  of  the 
danger  that  might  cause  to  this  gener- 
ously-accorded privilege.  But  Mr.  Kage 
thought  they  might  have  been  contented 
with  making  half  the  noise,  and  felt  in- 
clined to  stop  his  ears. 

A  crowded  steamer — City  men  going 
homewards — passed  up  the  Thames  ;  one 
with  not  a  dozen  people  on  it  steamed 
downwards.  Some  of  the  noisy  infantile 
crew  below  rushed  to  the  garden's  edge 
and  shouted  cheers  after  both  of  them. 
In  clattered  the  boy  again,  James;  and 
his  master,  who  had  just  opened  the  pa- 
per, turned  round. 

Mr.  James,  having  lingered  on  the 
stairs  and  landing-places  with  an  acquain- 
tance or  two,  had  been  waylaid  by  the 
postman.  Two  letters  for  T.  C.  Carr 
Kage,  Esq.  On  the  whole,  young  Mr. 
James  had  reason  to  like  the  master  he 
chiefly  served,  and  did  not  very  much 
grudge  the  going  back  into  the  rooms  to 
deliver  the  letters. 

But  Mr.  Kage's  eye  had  been  caught 
by  something  in  the  evening  journal.  He 
motioned  to  the  table,  and  the  boy  kft 
the  letters  on  it. 

It  was  a  flaming  paragraph,  written  in 
the  true  style  of  the  newspaper-contribu- 
tor, who  seems  to  like  to  expend  his  en- 
ergies equall}'  in  recording  fashionable 
movements  and  unfashionable  murders. 
This  was  of  a  "  marriage  in  high  life." 
George  Canterbury,  of  the  Rock,  Chill- 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


89 


ing,  to  Caroline,  only  child  of  the  late 
Captain  Alfred  Kage  and  of  the  Honor- 
able Mrs.  Kage,  and  granddaughter  of 
the  late  Right  Honorable  Augustus  Lord 
Griinse. 

There  was  an  account  of  the  lovely 
bride's  charming  attire,  and  of  the  state 
in  which  the  happy  pair  departed  for  the 
Lakes,  there  to  pass  the  honeymoon;  but 
Thomas  Kage  read  it  not.  After  the 
first  few  words  of  announcement,  telling 
the  tale,  he  sat  like  a  man  turned  into 
stone  ;  the  journal  fallen  from  his  hands, 
his  white  face  lifted. 

Very  strange  to  say,  not  a  syllable  of 
the  contemplated  union  had  penetrated 
to  London  and  Thomas  Kage.  And  yet 
perhaps  not  so  strange,  if  circumstances 
are  taken  into  consideration.  When 
Lydia  Dunn  went  back  from  the  Rock 
full  of  it,  there  la}T  on  her  heart  a  faint 
hope  that  even  then  some  fortunate  acci- 
dent might  happen  to  prevent  the  un- 
seemly wedding  ;  and  for  once  her  tongue 
was  still.  The  Miss  Canterbury's,  in  writ- 
ing to  Sarah  Annesley,  felt  ashamed  to 
speak  of  it ;  time  enough,  they  thought, 
when  it  should  actually  have  taken  place. 
Other  people  did  not  know  of  it ;  and 
Mrs.  Kage  had  been  cautiously  silent 
throughout.  Anyway,  it  came  upon 
Thomas  Kage  this  evening  with  a  blow. 
At  the  first  moment  he  believed  it  not. 

But  the  account  was  too  elaborate  for 
an}Tthing  but  truth.  Smoothing  the 
newspaper,  he  read  it  again  ;  all.  So  it 
was  for  Mr.  Canterbury,  the  sexagenari- 
an, he  had  been  rejected  !  It  was  for  the 
grandeur  and  riches  of  the  Rock  ;  Caro- 
line's words — spoken  in  that  last  memo- 
rable interview — came  surging  back  to 
him  ;  of  the  carriages,  the  court-dresses, 
the  jewels,  the  grandeur,  the  thousands 
and  thousands  a-year  she  must  gain  in 
marrying,  or  not  marry  at  all.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  that  she  had  been 
thinking  of  Mr.  Canterbury.  The  alli- 
ance must  have  been  even  then  arranged. 
A  cold  damp  moisture  overspread  his 
gray  face;  and  he  flung  up  his  hands  to 
cover  it,  shutting  out  the  evening's 
bright  light. 

"God  forgive  her  for  her  heartlessness. 
and  me  for  my  credulitj'  !  God  help  me 
to  bear  it  !  " 

Ay  !     And  none  knew — none  in  this 
world — how  much  need  of  help  he  had;  , 
how  he  was  shrinking  under  this  decisive 
blow. 


He  could  not  have  told  afterwards  how 
long  he  sat  there.  Had  be  been  a  woman 
he  might  have  fallen  on  the  ground  in 
utter  abandonment,  and  buried  his  face 
from  even  the  very  light  of  heaven.  He 
only  sat  still  as  a  statue  ;  never  moving, 
scarcely  breathing,  his  head  and  eyelids 
alike  drooping;  looking  just  as  though 
the  blow  had  struck  him  physically  as  well 
as  mentally. 

When  he  roused  himself  it  was  with 
a  shiver.  The  letters  waiting  on  the  * 
table  caught  his  eye.  The  one  was  from 
Aberton,  concerning  the  business-matter 
he  was  engaged  on  ;  from  the  other,  as 
he  opened  it,  fell  two  cards,  tied  together 
with  silver  cord — which  fashion  was  not 
obsolete  in  Chilling.  No  need  to  specu- 
late whose  names  they  bore  ;  and  the 
address  was  in  the  characterless,  nearly 
illegible  handwriting  of  Mrs.  Kage. 
"Mr.  Canterbury."  "Mrs.  Canter- 
bury." Thomas  Kage  tore  each  card  in 
two,  and  threw  the  pieces  into  his  waste- 
paper  basket. 

Twilight  was  falling  on  th.3  earth 
when  he  went  out.  The  hum  and  the 
noise  were  no  longer  heard  ;  the  disor- 
derly crew  had  dispersed,  leaving  their 
traces  behind  them.  Numberless  scraps 
of  paper  lay  about;  rags  from  dilapida- 
ted frocks  ;  soles  or  tops  of  shoes.  As 
Thomas  Kage  turned  into  the  garden,  a 
thought  came  across  his  mind,  in  the 
midst  of  its  confusion,  that  if  the  power 
lay  with  him  he  would  banish  this  un- 
tidy crew  ;  but  the  next  moment  he  re- 
membered the  boon  it  was  to  the  poor 
things,  and  regretted  the  thought. 

He  wandered  on  by  the  path  to  the 
foot  of  the  garden,  and  there  sat  down 
with  his  pain.  The  sunny  daylight  had 
turned  into  a  gray  evening ;  the  air 
seemed  heavy,  the  skies  were  lead-color- 
ed— all  a  type  of  his  own  bruised  and 
weary  heart. 

The  recollection  of  his  last  interview 
with  his  mother  flashed  into  his  mind. 
"  Pain,  toil,  sorrow,  whatever  trouble 
may  be  deemed  necessary  for  you — you 
will  not  fail,"  Lady  Kage  had  said. 
"  You  will  bear  up  bravely,  looking  to 
the  end."  And  his  answer  had  been  he 
would  bear:  "  Yes,  God  helping  me." 

A  light  in  the  leaden  sky  above  drew 
his  attention  upwards.  The  thick 
clouds  had  parted,  giving  glimpse  of  a 
golden  radiance ;  the  young  moon 
showed  herself  for  a  moment.     It  actu- 


30 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL. 


ally  seemed  a  type  to  Thomas  Kage, 
that  the  help  he  had  wished  for  was 
surely  there  ;  always  waiting  for  any 
moment  when  necessity  should  call  for 
it.  He  thought,  perhaps  fancifully,  that 
his  mother  might  be  looking  down  for 
him — as  she  herself  had  said  in  dj'ing 
she  should  do,  and  drawn  her  comfort 
from  the  imaginative  picture.  Did  she 
see  all  his  heart-sick  pain  ?  Could  her 
influence,  reminding  him  of  his  under- 
taking to  struggle  manfully,  reach  him 
here  ?     He  surety  believed  it  might. 

Bending  his  forehead  in  his  hand,  he 
thought  and  thought ;  making  good  re- 
solves to  bear  up,  and  to  strive  from 
that  moment  to  put  from  him  resolutely 
all  remembrance  of  the  love  that  had 
formed  his  day-dream.  Henceforth, 
being  helped,  he  would  be  more  ener- 
getic in  all  life's  duties ;  bearing  his 
cross  in  silence,  looking  not  for  reward 
here  ;  and  so  forget  that  anj'thing  but 
working  on  patiently  for  the  better  end 
had  ever  been  hoped  for. 

He  rose  up  then,  got  out  of  the  soli- 
tary garden,  and  bent  his  steps  westward, 
disregarding  cabs  and  omnibuses  and 
any  other  modes  of  conveyance  that 
might  present  themselves.  When  the 
mind  is  racked  with  trouble  walking  is 
the  most  acceptable.  His  dinner  might 
be  waiting  at  home,  but  he  could  not  eat 
it.  Old  Dorothy  would  only  have  it  put 
away,  and  think  business  detained  him. 

In  passing  through  Paradise-square, 
for  he  took  the  longest  way  home  he 
could  find,  he  saw  Mrs.  Dunn's  carriage 
standing  at  her  door.  That  .lady,  going 
abroad  to  some  evening-party,  came 
swiftly  out  of  her  house  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, the  lappets  of  her  jaunty  widow's 
cap  stirring  gently  behind  her. 

"  Is  it  you,  Mr.  Kage  ?  How  are 
you  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  was  all  he  answered. 
"  Are  you  well  ?  " 

•'  As  well  as  that  disgraceful  news 
from  home  will  allow  me  to  be,"  said 
Mrs.  Dunn  tartly,  drawing  him  a  few 
steps  farther  up  on  the  broad  white  pave- 
ment, that  her  servants,  waiting  with 
the  carriage,  might  not  hear  the  com- 
plaint. "  Yes,  Mr  Kage,  I  repeat  the 
word  deliberately — disgraceful." 

"  You  allude  to — " 

"  To  my  father's  marriage,"  she  inter- 


rupted, speaking  what  he  had  hesitated 
to  do.  "  You  have  heard  of  it,  of 
course  ?  " 

"  Some  cards  came  to  me  this  after- 
noon." 

"  Cards  !  "  wrathfully  repeated  Mrs. 
Dunn.  "That  woman,  the  mother,  has 
had  the  face  to  send  some  to  me.  She'd 
better  have  sent  a  caricature  of  two 
fools'  heads  instead.  How  long  have 
you  known  of  it,  Mr.  Kage  ?  " 

"  I  never  had  the  slightest  suspicion 
that  such  an  event  was  in  contempla- 
tion." 

"  That  it  was  possible,  you  might  say. 
No  ;  there  has  been  craft  at  work,  and 
the  thing  was  kept  quiet.  My  father 
was  a  fool,  the  women  were  rogues.  I 
cannot  help  speaking  my  mind  of  them, 
although  they  are  your  relatives." 

"  Were  j'ou  not  made  acquainted  with 
it?"   • 

"I  found  it  out,"  said  Mrs.  Dunn. 
"  When  I  went  down  home  last  June,  I 
had  not  been  many  hours  in  the  house 
before  my  suspicions  were  aroused.  I 
saw  the  game  Mrs.  Kage  and  her  daugh- 
ter were  playing  ;  I  saw  that  it  must 
have  been  going  on  for  some  time. 
Every  possible  wile  were  they  exercis- 
ing to  entrap  my  father." 

"  Surely  not  Caroline  ?  "  he  interrup- 
ted. "It  must  have  been  solely  her 
mother." 

"  Caroline  was  the  worse  of  the  two," 
answered  plain-speaking  Mrs.  Dunn. 
"  If  her  mother  planned,  she  executed. 
I  never  saw  a  girl  go  more  warily  to 
work.  I  watched  for  some  days,  and 
made  mj^self  sure  before  I  said  a  word. 
They  little  suspected  I  was  looking  on 
at  the  cards  ;  and  I  saw  the  hands  of 
both,  and  how  they  played  them.  Had 
Caroline  Kage's  heart  been  engaged  in 
the  contest — though  even  to  say  such  a 
thing  seems  unpardonably  absurd — had 
she  been  seeking  to  entrap  the  most  de- 
sirable young  fellow  living,  she  could  not 
have  put  forth  her  fascinations  with 
more  subtle  skill." 

"  I  could  not  have  supposed  her  capa- 
ble of  it,"  he  murmured. 

"  I  daresay  not,"  and  Mrs.  Dunn's 
voice  took  a  slightly  sarcastic  tone. 
"  Some  of  them  thought  her  an  angel  : 
perhaps  3Tou  did." 

A  bright  flush,  visible  enough  had  they 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


91 


been  standing  "to  face  the  gas-lamp  at 
the  corner,  dyed  his  face  ;  but  he  did  not 
answer. 

"  She  is  a  pretty  child  outwardly, 
while  inwardly  she  is  nearly  as  crafty  as 
her  mother;  and  that's  saying  a  good 
deal,"  avowed  Mrs.  Dunn,  continuing  to 
pace  the  pavement  in  perfect  indepen- 
dence of  all  gazers.  ''When  I  disclosed 
to  my  sisters  the  play  I  saw  going  on, 
they  were  petrified — once  they  could  be 
got  to  believe  it  might  be  true.  Nothing 
could  be  done,  it  was  too  late;  during 
that  very  hour  that  I  was  speaking  to 
them,  my  father  proposed  to  the  girl, 
and  the  wedding  was  fixed.  I  came 
away  from  the  Rock,  refusing  the  coun- 
tenance to  affairs  that  my  presence  there 
might  tacitly  have  given.  You  no 
doubt  wondered  that  my  anticipated  long 
visit  there  turned  out  so  short  a  one." 

"  I  remember,"  he  murmured. 

"  I  never  opened  my  lips  to  a  living 
soul.  It  was  possible,  I  thought,  that 
some  fortunate  accident  might  intervene 
to  prevent  the  wedding ;  and  I  was,  be- 
sides, too  grieved  to  speak.  My  sisters 
said  nothing  in  their  letters,  and  I  hoped 
it  was  done  away  with — that  my  father 
had  come  to  his  senses,  or  Caroline  Kage 
to  hers.  When  those  miserable  cards 
arrived  to-day,  '  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury,' I  wished  I  was  near  enough  to 
fling  them  back  in  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Can- 
terbury's faces,  and  tell  them  what  I 
thought," 

Thomas  Kage  remembered  where  he 
had  flung  his. 

"  I  shall  tell  it  to  Mrs.  Kage  some 
time,  if  I  don't  to  them.  One  of  these 
days  she  and  I  may  be  face  to  face 
again  ;  and  I  am  at  liberty  to  speak, 
you  know,  Mr.  Kage  :  having  a  home  of 
my  own,  I  feel  free  to  do  so,  just  as  one 
might  who  is  independent  of  the  family. 
Yes,  yes,  Madam  Kage ;  you  no  doubt 
think  you  have  accomplished  a  great 
tiling ;  but  it  may  not  turn  out  to  be  al- 
together for  Miss  Caroline's  good." 

"  I  should  scarcely  think  it  can,"  he 
said,  in  a  low  tone,  speaking  the  senti- 
ments that  kept  beating  upon  his  heart. 
"  Think  ! "  retorted  Mrs.  Dunn. 
"  No  match,  ever  made  in  this  world, 
was  more  incongruous.  My  father  is 
turned  sixty  ;  she  is  not  twenty — what 
can  they  expect  ?  " 
"  Very  true." 


"Have  you  reflected  on  what  it  must 
be  for  my  sisters?"  whispered  Mrs. 
Dunn,  as  they  drew  slowly  towards  the 
carriage;  and  for  once  her  tone  told  of 
pain.  "Olive  has  been  mistress  of  the 
Rock  for  twelve  years,  and  my  father 
brings  home  a  mistress  to  put  over  her 
head, — a  girl  younger  in  years  than  Mil- 
licent.  Do  you  know  what  I  think,  Mr. 
Kage  ?  " 
"  No." 

"  I'll  tell  you,  then  ;  and,  mind,  some 
good  instinct  whispers  me  that  I  am 
right.  When  a  girl  can  thrust  herself 
in  this  unseemty  manner  between  a 
father  and  his  children's  home,  she  may 
look  out  for  punishment  instead  of  hap- 
piness." 

The  carriage  drove  off,  leaving  him 
standing,  Mrs.  Dunn  bowing  her  silent 
adieu  from  its  window.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  there  were  to  be  nothing  but 
encounters  that  night ;  for  as  he  turned 
into  Paradise-terrace,  not  caring  where 
he  walked,  he  met  Miss  Annesley.  The 
servant  in  attendance  on  her  went  for- 
ward to  get  Mrs.  Annesley's  door  open. 
"I  have  been  spending  an  hour  with 
Mrs.  Garston,"  she  explained.  "  Have 
you  —  have  you  heard  the  news  from 
Chilling  ?  " 

He  simply  nodded  in  answer,  his  pale 
face  turning  itself  a  little  from  her. 

"  When  Leta's  letter  reached  me  to- 
day, I  sat  thunderstruck.  0  Mr.  Kage, 
how  unsuitable  it  is !  Mrs.  Garston  has 
been  laughing  over  it  all  the  evening, 
and  saying  hard  truths." 
«  Ay  !  " 

"  To  me  it  seems  an  unholy  marriage  ; 
a  terrible  thing." 
"  Does  it  ?  " 

Does  it !  His  lips  could  not  frame  a 
better  answer ;  these  last  few  minutes 
had  been  trying  him  to  the  very  utter- 
most. Light  flashed  on  Sarah  Annes- 
ley. Had  she  never  seen  or  suspected 
before,  the  strangely-wan  countenance, 
the  passively  -  constrained  tone,  might 
have  told  her  the  secret. 

"  Forgive  me,  0  forgive  me,  Mr. 
Kage  ! "  she  said  in  a  flutter  of  agita- 
tion. "  I — I  did  think  you  cared  for 
her ;  I  fancied  it  all  that  while  back  at 
Little  Bay.  Take  comfort.  If  she 
knew  it — and  I  am  sure  she  did — she 
could  not  be  worthy  of  you.  All  may 
be  for  the  best." 


92 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


Wringing  his  hand,  she  turned  in- 
doors, as  if  not  caring  to  look  at  him  af- 
ter her  avowal  of  knowledge.  Thomas 
Kage  walked  on  down  the  terrace, 
which  was  a  long  one.  His  sister,  Mrs. 
Lowther,  lived  at  the  hist  house  in  it. 
A  servant  was  standing  at  the  open 
door. 

"  How  are  the  children  to-night  ?  " 
he  stopped  to  ask. 

"  Very  ill,  sir.  There's  a  change  for 
the  worse  in  Master  Fairfax,  and  Ann 
has  just  run  round  for  Dr.  Tyndal." 

Thomas  Kage  turned  in.  The  sitting- 
rooms  were  empty,  and  he  went  on  up- 
stairs to  the  nursery.  The  children 
were  ill  with  scarlatina;  and  Mr.  Low- 
ther was  in  Belgium,  superintending  the 
construction  of  a  railroad.  Walking 
about  the  room  was  the  nurse,  singing 
softly  to  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

"  Hush-sh-sh  !  he's  all  but  off/'  cried 
she  hastily,  hearing  some  one  enter,  and 
supposing  it  to  be  one  of  her  fellow-ser- 
vants. "  And  I'm  sure  I  dou't  want 
him  woke  up  again,  for  I'm  tired  enough 
as  it  is." 

"  What  is  amiss,  nurse  ?  "  he  whis- 
pered. 

The  young  woman  turned  round. 

"  O  sir,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Master 
Fairfax  is  very  ill  to-night,  sir;  he's 
quite  delirious,  and  my  mistress  is  afraid. 
Not  but  what  I  think  it  may  be  only 
just  the  turn  of  the  disorder,  when  it's 
sure  to  seem  at  its  worst." 

Some  one  pushed  open  an  inner  door, 
saw  who  was  there,  and  came  forward. 
It  was  Mrs.  Lowther.  She  had  a  nice 
face,  in  spite  of  its  plain  features  ;  it  was 
a  little  careworn,  and  she  looked  her  full 
age,  six-and-thirt3r.  Her  flaxen  hair 
was  put  carelessly  back ;  her  gown,  a 
black-and-white  muslin,  had  plenty  of 
creases  in  it ;  just  now  she  was  too 
busj'  helping  to  nurse  her  sick  children 
to  be  particular  about  attire. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  this,  Charlotte.  One 
of  them  is  worse,  I  hear." 

"  I  think  he  is  dying,"  she  said  in  a 
weary,  still  tone.  "  It's  Fairfax.  But 
are  you  not  afraid  of  being  up  here, 
Thomas  ?     You  may  catch  the  fever.'' 

"  I  afraid  of  catching  a  children's  fe- 
ver!" he  lightly  answered.  "There's 
no  fear.  But  I  hope  you  are  mistaken 
as  to  his  danger.     Where  is  he  ?  " 

Mrs.   Lowther  passed    into   the  chil- 


dren's room.  In  one  of  the  small  beds 
lay  a  boy  of  ten.  His  gray  eyes  had  a 
strange  brightness  in  them  ;  his  cheeks 
were  of  a  crimson  hectic.  Throwing  his 
head  about  the  bed,  or  quite  still  by 
turns  ;  now  he  would  seem  to  be  falling 
into  a  doze,  and  now  would  wake  up, 
rambling  wildly. 

"Poor  little  fellow!"  exclaimed 
Thomas  Kage. 

Young  Master  Lowther  was  as  mis- 
chievous   a    gentleman    in    ordinary    asi 
could  be  found  within  the  precincts  of 
west    London.      He   lajr  disabled    now. 
His  mother  stood  looking  on  in  tears. 

"  Do  you  know  me,  my  boy  ?  "  gent- 
ry asked  Mr.  Kage,  taking  the  little  hot 
hand.  It  was  snatched  away  petu- 
lantly. 

"  You  sha'nt  do  it,  then,  you  fellows  ! 
I'm  not  Faxy  ;  I  tell  you  I'm  not ! " 

He  was  rambling  in  brain  amidst  his 
schoolmates,  with  the  great  school  griev- 
ance tormenting  him.  The  boys  had 
taken  to  call  him  "  Faxy,"  which  was 
particularly  objectionable  to  Master 
Fairfax.  The  more  he  showed  his  dis- 
like of  it  (speaking  now  of  past  reality), 
the  more  they  had  shouted  it. 

Thomas  Kage  bent  his  lips,  with 
their  soothing  tones,  close  to  the  troub- 
led, restless  ear. 

"It  is  Fairfax  —  Fairfax.  There! 
Fairfax." 

"  I  am  sure  he  is  dying,  Thomas," 
spoke  Mrs.  Lowther.  "  And  Robert 
abroad  ! " 

He  took  her  by  the  hand  and  made 
her  sit  down,  and  waited  a  minute  while 
she  gave  way  to  her  tears.  The  boy 
was  quiet  again. 

"  Charlotte,  you  are  very  tired." 

"  Very — very.  It  is  two  nights  since 
I  was  in  bed." 

"  And,  being  so  tired,  your  spirits  are 
naturally  depressed,  so  that  things  wear 
their  worst  aspect  to  you,"  he  calmly  re- 
sumed. "  I  have  had  some  experience 
in  illness,  and  do  not  think  he  is  in  the 
danger  you  imagine.  Children  seem 
d}ring  one  minute  and  are  running  about 
the  next." 

"  He  is  very  ill,  Thomas  ;  there  can- 
not be  a  question  of  that.  It  is  Robert's 
being  away  that  makes  me  more  fearful. 
I  shall  telegraph  for  him  as  soon  as  the 
doctor  has  been." 

"  What  have  you  taken  to-day  ?  "  he 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


93 


asked,   seeing   how   exhausted   she   ap- 
peared. 

"  Some  tea." 

"  Tea  !     Nothing  better  than  tea  ?  " 

"  "With  all  the  children  ill,  except 
baby,  and  Fairfax  lying  like  this,  how 
can  I  get  time  to  take  regular  meals  ? 
I've  had  some  toast-and-butter  with  the 
tea." 

"  It  is  the  very  time  when  you  ought 
to  be  cautious  to  keep  up,  so  far  as  may 
be,  your  strength,  Charlotte.  If  mother 
were  here  still,  she  would  tell  you  so." 

Mrs.  Lowther  burst  into  a  flood  of 
tears.  Overcome  with  fatigue,  fear, 
anxiety,  and  no  doubt  want  of  suste- 
nance, a  word  was  sufficient  to  try  her. 

"  0  Thomas,  don't  make  me  more  un- 
happy by  recalling  her.  If  she  were 
but  here  still,  I  should  have  something 
to  lean  on." 

He  went  downstairs,  saj'ing  nothing; 
found  some  sherry,  got  an  egg  beaten 
up  in  it,  and  carried  it  back  to  her. 
Charlotte  took  it,  and  gazed  at  him 
through  her  blinding  tears. 

"  You  put  me  more  and  more  in  mind 
of  her  every  day,  Thomas.  Not  in 
looks — they  say,  you  know,  that  you  are 
more  like  our  dead  father,  whom  you 
cannot  remember,  and  I  only  slightly — 
but  in  thoughtful  care  for  others." 

Dr.  Tyndal  came  in  as  Charlotte  was 
speaking.  She  drank  down  her  pleas- 
ant dose  at  a  draught,  and  stood  with 
her  brother  and  the  ph}*sician  round  the 
boy's  bed.     Fairfax  was  rambling  again. 

The  doctor  said  very  little,  except 
that  he  hoped  and  thought  the  lad 
would  be  better  in  the  morning.  He 
suggested  one  or  two  slight  remedies, 
and  gave  him,  with  his  own  hands,  a 
teaspoonful  of  the  medicine.  Mrs. 
Lowther  intimated  that  she  was  about 
to  telegraph  to  Belgium  for  her  hus- 
band. 

"  Y~ou  will  go  to  the  office  and  send 
the  message  for  me,  won't  you,  Thom- 
as ?  "  she  said. 

Mr.  Kage  nodded  his  head  in  the 
affirmative,  and  went  downstairs  with 
the  man  of  medicine. 

"  Don't  telegraph  !  "  cried  the  doctor 
emphatically,  drawing  Thomas  Kage  in- 
to a  room  only  lighted  by  the  street- 
lamps.  "  Poor  Lowther  is  up  to  the 
eyes  in  work,  over  there ;  he  won't 
thank  even  his  wife  for  disturbing  him 


needlessly.  Before  to-morrow  morning 
there'll  be  a  change  of  some  sort:  if,  as 
I  believe,  the  boy  shall  then  be  out  of 
danger,  there'll  be  no  need  of  him;  if 
it's  the  other  change,  time  enough  to 
summon  him  then." 

"  It  is  your  true  opinion  —  that  the 
boy  will  get  over  it  ?  " 

'•It  is.  A  great  deal  depends  upon 
the  care  and  nursing  he  gets  for  the 
next  twelve  hours.  His  mother  and  the 
nurse  are  three-parts  worn  out." 

"I  intend  to  sit  up  with  him." 

"  All  right,  You  heard  my  direc- 
tions ?  " 

"  Distinctly.     I  understand." 

The  doctor  departed,  and  Thomas 
Kage  went  up  again.  He  told  Char- 
lotte what  he  intended  to  do — sit  up 
with  the  boy,  and,  if  God  so  willed, 
bring  him  through  it.  But  for  her  dis- 
tress, she  would  have  laughed  at  the 
idea  of  his  turning  nurse. 

He  carried  his  point,  however.  Char- 
lotte and  the  tired  maid  lay  down  to  get 
the  needed  rest,  and  Thomas  Kage  took 
charge  of  the  patient. 

He  had  leisure  to  think  in  that  long 
night  watch.  Not  at  first;  all  his  at- 
tention and  care  were  needed  for  hours. 
At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  lad 
fell  asleep,  and  Thomas  knew  he  was 
saved  ;  and  that  the  need  for  sending 
for  Mr.  Lowther  was  over.  As  he  sat 
back  in  the  easj'-chair  afterwards,  still 
as  a  mouse,  a  gleam  of  sunshine  came 
in  to  illumine  his  heart.  Every  hope  of 
happiness  for  himself  seemed  over  ;  but 
life  might  yet  have  pleasant  work  for 
him  in  unselfishly  helping  his  fellow- 
wayfarers. 

"  And  that,  after  all,  must  be  the  true 
way  to  attain  to  the  End,"  mused 
Thomas  Kage.  "  Only  through  tribula- 
tion can  we  forget  self,  and  enter  on  its 
track.     I  am  glad  I  came  in  here." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

The  rejoicings  at  the  christening  of 
an  heir  to  the  goodly  estate  of  the  Bock 
were  beginning  to  die  away  in  neighbor- 
ing ears.  The  bonfires  were  burnt  out, 
the  ashes  of  the  fireworks  scattered  to 


94 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


the  far  winds,  the  tenants  and  laborers 
had  digested  the  dinner  and  the  drink, 
and  things  had  quietly  settled  down 
again.  Such  rejoicings !  both  indoors 
and  out :  and  all  because  a  poor  little 
infant  had  come  into  this  world  of 
trouble. 

Legally  speaking  he  was  not  born  the 
heir,  for  the  estate  was  not  entailed,  and 
Mr.  Canterbury,  its  owner,  could  be- 
queath it  to  whom  he  would.  Little 
danger,  though,  that  he  would  leave  it 
away  from  this  child  of  his  old  age  ;  no 
urchin,  playing  at  soldiers  in  a  sword 
and  feather  bought  at  the  fair,  was  ever 
half  so  vain-glorious  as  was  Mr.  Can- 
terbury over  this  new  baby. 

The  child  was  born  on  the  18th  of 
August,  which  had  also  been,  rather 
singular  to  say,  his  mother's  wedding- 
day  twelve  months  before.  Only  one 
short  twelvemonth  !  and  yet  strange 
changes  had  taken  place  in  it.  The 
Miss  Canterburys  had  quitted  the  Rock, 
and  Mrs.  Kage  spent  so  much  of  her 
time  there,  that  it  might  almost  be  said 
she  had  made  it  her  home. 

Lydia  Dunn's  prophecy  —  that  her 
sisters  would  be  driven  from  their  home 
by  its  new  mistress— had  turned  out  to 
be  a  true  one;  and  the  lady  of  strong 
common  sense  would  have  been  full  of 
self-gratulation  accordingly,  but  for  the 
indignant  pity  that  was  burning  her  to 
her  ringers'  ends. 

Young  Mrs.  Canterbury,  indulged  to 
folly  by  her  husband,  had  commenced 
her  sway  at  her  new  home  as  if  she 
thought  the  world  was  made 'for  her  ex- 
clusively. At  first — quite  at  first — she 
seemed  inclined  to  be  pleasant,  and  to 
consider  others  as  well  as  herself;  but 
she  speedily  fell  into  the  mistake,  that 
some,  in  a  like  position,  had  made  be- 
fore her — that  of  seeking  to  bend  every- 
one by  whom  she  was  surrounded  to 
her  own  capricious  and  sovereign  will. 
It  is  possible  that  she  might  not  have 
tried  to  break  the  peace  of  the  Miss 
Canterburys,  but  for  the  secret  urging  to 
it  of  her  mother.  Nay,  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  Caroline  might  have 
been  sufficiently  well-disposed  towards 
them,  might  have  let  them  be  happy  in 
their  father's  home  in  her  indifferent, 
thoughtless  temperament,  but  for  the 
private  promptings  of  Mrs.  Kage.  She 
wanted  them  out  of  it. 


The  young  ladies  bore  in  silence  as 
long  as  they  could.  They  wished  to  bear, 
and  to  be  considerate  to  their  father's 
wife,  yielding  to  her  all  proper  deference. 
But  when  it  came  to  thwartings  of  their 
will  and  petty  galling  tyrannj7,  to  tacit 
but  very  palpable  insult,  then  Olive 
turned.  Not  in  the  same  spirit,  but 
grandly  and  loftily,  essaying  to  bring 
reasoning  and  calm  remonstance  to  bear. 
Young  Mrs.  Canterbuiy  resented  it,  and 
unpleasantness  ensued.  Mrs.  Kage,  like 
an  amiable  fox  stepped  in  to  heal  the 
breach,  and  made  it  ten  times  wider.  It 
was  impossible  but  that  Olive  should  de- 
tect the  motive  of  all  this — that  they 
should  be  driven  from  the  Rock,  so  that 
it  might  be  left  entirely  free  for  Mrs. 
Canterbury  and  her  mother. 

She  appealed  to  Mr.  Canterbury. 
There  was  appealing  and  counter-appeal- 
ing. That  gentleman  threw  the  whole 
blame  back  on  his  daughters.  He  was 
quite  honest  in  doing  it,  for  he  could  only 
believe  them  to  be  in  fault :  had  an  angel 
whispered  to  him  that  his  wife  could  be 
wrong,  he  would  have  disbelieved  it. 
With  his  new  idol  by  his  side  in  all  her 
beauty,  and  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Kage 
whispering  sweetly- insidious  whispers 
into  his  ear  every  other  hour  in  the  day, 
how  could  it  be  otherwise?  Ere  Christ- 
mas had  well  turned,  the  ill-fated  young 
ladies  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  were 
compelled  to  acknowledge  themselves 
driven  from  their  childhood  home,  to  find 
refuge  elsewhere.  It  was  arranged  that 
they  should  remove  to  a  pretty  house  on 
the  estate  called  Thornhedge  Villa  ;  Mr. 
Canterbury  setting  them  up  with  all 
things  he  thought  necessary,  including  a 
carriage,  and  covenanting  to  allow  them 
fifteen  hundred  a-year.  He  assumed 
that  it  would  be  but  a  temporary  sepa- 
ration ;  that  they  would  soon  "  make  it 
up,"  with  his  wife  and  return  to  the 
Rock.  "  0,  of  course,  dear  sir,  nothing 
but  temporary  ;  they'll  speedily  come  to 
their  senses,"  said  Mrs.  Kage,  softly  ac- 
quiescent. And  so,  on  a  cold,  bitter  day 
in  February,  when  the  icicles  hung  from 
the  trees,  and  the  snow  was  falling,  George 
Canterbury's  daughters  went  out  of  their 
luxurious  home,  to  take  possession  of  the 
comparatively  humble  dwelling,  Thorn- 
hedge  Villa; 

One  great  feature  in  the  programme 
of  young  Mrs.  Canterbury's  visions  had 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


95 


to  be  dispensed  with — tlie  season  in  Lon- 
don. How  ardently  she  had  anticipated 
it,  none  save  herself  could  tell.  The 
presentation  at  Court,  with  its  attendant 
outlet  for  gratified  vanity — the  opera- 
box,  the  balls,  the  park,  the  thousand- 
and-one  features  of  aristocratic  London 
life — had  all  to  be  postponed  to  another 
year.  Ere  the  time  fixed  on  for  remov- 
ing thither — April — Caroline  had  fallen 
into  so  weak  and  suffering  a  state  of 
health,  that  she  herself  was  not  the  last 
to  know  and  say  she  could  not  stir  from 
the  Rock.  George  Canterbm-y,  while 
bewailing  the  fact  in  great  anxiety,  felt 
nevertheless  quite  aglow  with  pride  and 
hope,  in  his  consciousness  that  it  was 
within  the  range  of  probability  an  heir 
would  in  course  of  time  be  born.  The 
neighbors  for  miles  round  hoped  the  an- 
ticipated heir  would  turn  out  a  girl  ;  for 
they  were  brimful  of  sympathy  for  the 
wrongs  of  George  Canterbury's  daugh- 
ters. And  so  the  time  went  on  to  Au- 
gust, and  on  the  18th  of  that  month 
doubts  and  fears  were  solved  by  the  little 
child's  birth — a  boy. 

But  the  year,  apart  from  their  sorrow, 
had  not  been  altogether  destitute  of  event 
for  the  Miss  Canterbury's.  Jane  was  en- 
gaged to  be  married.  An  attachment 
had  existed  for  some  time  between  her 
and  Mr.  Rufort,  the  new  Rector  of  Chill- 
ing. Just  before  Christmas,  he  had 
made  proposals  for  her  formally  to  Mr. 
Canterbury,  and  been  accepted.  His  fa- 
ther, Lord  Rufort,  offered  no  objection  to 
the  match  ;  but  he  privately  told  his  son 
he  ought  to  have  done  much  better  in 
point  of  family.  Austin  laughed  :  his 
reverence  for  "  family,"  was  not  so  great 
as  his  father's;  and  the  stern  old  lord 
condescended  to  say  that  Miss  Jane 
Canterbury's  wealth  would  in  a  great 
degree  atone  for  the  other  deficiency. 

It  was  a  fine  night  in  the  beginning  of 
•October.  The  rejoicings  at  the  birth  of 
the  heir  had  died  awaj-,  as  already  said, 
and  Chilling  was  quiet  again.  Mr.  Ru- 
fort was  spending  the  evening  with  the 
Miss  Canterburys  at  Thornhedge  Villa  : 
which,  in  point  of  fact,  was  nothing  un- 
usual. They  had  drawn  away  from  the 
lights  to  collect  round  the  large  French 
window  of  the  drawing-room  ;  it  opened 
to  the  sloping  lawn  outside,  with  its  tufts 
of  geraniums  and  other  sweet  autumn 
flowers.     The  night  was  verj'  beautiful — 


calm  and  still  and  clear  :  the  hunter's 
moon  shone  brightly  in  the  heavens. 
It  was  growing  time  for  Mr.  Rufort  to 
depart  :  they  had  had  some  music,  had 
talked  of  various  subjects  of  interest, 
gossip  and  else,  and  so  the  evening  had 
rapidly  passed.  Only  that  day  week  the}' 
had  been  at  the  Rock,  at  the  christening 
of  the  little  boy-babj'.  A  fearfully  grand 
affair,  that  christening.  Mr.  Rufort,  as 
rector  of  Chilling,  had  but  assisted  at  it ; 
nobody  less  than  a  bishop  was  allowed  to 
perform  the  ceremon}7.  In  quitting  the 
Rock  as  their  residence,  the  Miss  Can- 
terbur}rs — gentle,  right-minded  ladies — 
had  not  brought  matters  to  a  rupture  ; 
amicable  relations  existed,  so  to. say,  still, 
at  which  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Kage 
looked  on  with  a  green,  wary,  jealous  eye. 
Onty  this  very  afternoon,  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury's carriage  had  stopjied  at  Thorn- 
hedge  Villa,  and  Mrs.  Canterbury  her- 
self, lovely  and  more  blooming  than  ever, 
had  come  to  pay  a  visit.  One  fact  the 
young  ladies  could  not  help  noticing  ; 
that  they  were  not  encouraged  to  go  to 
the  Rock  at  will.  If  invited  on  any 
chance  state  occasion,  well  and  good  ;  but 
otherwise  they  were  not  expected  at  it. 
Ah,  the}'  had  a  great  deal  to  bear ! 
But  the  evening  was  over ;  Mr.  Rufort 
could  not  linger,  and  shook  hands  with 
them. 

"  I  may  as  well  go  out  this  way,"  he 
observed,  opening  the  half-window. 

"  But  your  hat,"  said  Miss  Canter- 
bury.— "  Ring,  Millicent." 

"  Do  not  ring  ;  I  have  it  here,"  he  in- 
terposed, taking  from  his  pocket  a  cloth 
cap,  doubled  into  a  small  compass. 
"  There,"  said  he,  exhibiting  it  on  his 
hand  for  their  inspection  ;  "  what  do  you 
think  of  it  ?  I  call  it  my  weather-cap. 
If  I  am  fetched  out  at  night,  I  put  on  this, 
tie  it  over  my  ears,  and  so  defy  wind  and 
rain." 

"  You  had  no  wind  or  rain  to-night," 
remarked  Millicent. 

"  No  ;  but  in  coming  out  I  could  not 
find  my  hat.  It  is  a  failing  of  mine,  that 
of  losing  my  things  in  all  corners  of  the 
house.  I  sadly  want  somebody  to  keep 
me  in  order,"    he  added,  looking  at  Jane. 

"  Some  men  never  can  be  kept  in  or- 
der," interposed  Millicent  rather  sau- 
cily, with  a  touch  of  her  old  light  spirit, 
which,  from  some  cause  or  other,  had  been 
sadly  heavy  for  a  long  while. 


^ 


96 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


"I  am  not  one  of  those,"  laughingly 
replied  Mr.  Rufort.  "  Well,  good-night. 
Jane,  you  may  as  well  come  as  far  as 
the  gate  with  me." 

Jane  glanced  at  Olive  as  she  would 
have  glanced  to  a  mother;  Miss  Canter- 
bury had  been  regarded  by  the  others 
almost  in  the  light  of  one.  Mr.  Rufort 
held  the  glass-door  wide  for  her,  and  she 
stepped  on  to  the  gravel  path;  he  then 
closed  the  window,  and  held  out  his  arm. 
Jane  finished  tying  her  pocket-handker- 
chief round  her  throat,  and  took  it.  He 
walked  bareheaded. 

"  Put  on  your  cap,  Austin." 
"  All  in  good  time,"  he  replied. 
"  You  will  take  cold." 
"  Cold,  Jane  !     A  clergyman  is  not  fit 
for  his  work  if  he  cannot  stand  for  an 
hour    with    his   head    uncovered  in  bad 
weather — and   to-night  is  fine.     If  j^ou 
saw  the  model  of  a  guy  this  elegant  cap 
makes  of  me  and  my  beauty,  you  might 
,take  it  into  your  head  to  reject  me." 

Jane  smiled  ;  her  own  quiet,  confiding 
smile ;  and  Mr.  Rufort  looked  at  her, 
and  drew  her  arm  closer  against  his  side. 
"  Jane,  I  had  a  selfish  motive  in 
bringing  you  out  with  me.  It  was  to 
tell  you  that  the  rectory  wants  a  mistress, 
a  id  the  parish  wants  a  mistress,  and  I 
want  a  wife.  We  cannot  get  along  as 
we  are." 

"  Mr.  Annesley  had  no — "'  wife,  Jane 
was  going  to  say,  but  stopped  herself  ere 
the  word  fell.  "  The  rectory  and  the 
parish  had  no  mistress  in  his  time,"  she 
resumed,  framing  her  answer  more  to 
her  satisfaction,  "  and  he  got  along, 
Austin." 

"  After  a  fashion  ;  a  miserable  fashion 
it  must  have  been.  That's  one  cause 
why  things  have  tumbled  into  their 
present  state.  /  don't  mean  to  let  them 
be  without  one  long." 

Like  the  arguments  of  a  great  many 
more  .people,  Mr.  Rufort' s,  strictly  exam- 
ined, would  not  have  held  water.  If  the 
late  Rector  had  not  (for  many  years  at 
least)  had  a  wife,  the  rectory  and  the 
parish  had  had  in  his  daughter  a  most 
efficient  mistress.  Mr.  Rufort,  so  far, 
was  but  speaking  in  jest,  as  Jane  knew. 
"  Here  we  are  at  the  gate,"  she  said. 
"  And  now  I  must  go  back,  or  Olive  will 
be  calling  to  me.  She  is  watching  me 
from  the  window,  I  am  sure,  to  see  that 
I  don't  linger." 


"  Not  she.  She  knows  you  are  safe 
with  me." 

"  Oh,'  certainly ;  but  she  is  always 
fancying  we  shall  take  cold." 

"  Yon  take  cold"?  I  declare  I  forgot 
that.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  thought- 
lessness, Jane.  Well,  then,  I  will  not 
keep  you  now,  but  I  shall  speak  further 
to-morrow." 

He  threw  his  arm  round  her  waist 
with  a  quick  movement,  and  drew  her 
behind  the  shrubbery  which  skirted  the 
gate,  so  that  they  were  hidden  from  the 
house.  And  there  he  imprinted  kiss 
after  kiss  upon  her  unresisting  face. 

"  0  my  goodness  ! "  groans  the  fasti- 
dious reader.     "  A  clergyman  !  " 

■  Well,  of  course  it  was  grievously  im- 
proper. But,  as  it  did  happen,  where's 
the  use  of  hypocritically  concealing  it  ? 

"  Jane,  my  darling,"  he  murmured, 
"  I  must  have  3*011  at  the  rectory  before 
Christmas.     Think  it  over." 

"  As  you  will,"  she  softly  answered. 

With  the  last  kiss,  Mr.  Rufort  opened 
the  gate,  swung  through  it,  and  took  the 
path  that  led  to  the  rectory.  Jane  stood 
a  moment  to  watch  him  :  she  saw  him 
put  on  his  "  gu}7  of  a  cap;"  she  saw 
him  turn  and  nod  to  her  in  the  moon- 
light:  and  she  clasped  her  hands  togeth- 
er with  a  movement  of  happy  thankful- 
ness, thinking  how  very  much  she  loved 
him.  Olive,  anxious  on  the  score  of  the 
night-air,  for  she  did  not  fancy  Jane  was 
particularly  strong,  tapped  at  the  window 
and  the  young  lady  ran  in. 

The  following  afternoon,  as  the  Miss 
Canterburys  were  crossing  the  Rock- 
field,  as  it  was  called,  '  on  their  way 
home,  they  saw  Mr.  Rufort  at  a  distance. 
He  turned  to  meet  them  ;  but  his  step 
seemed  slow  and  weary ;  his  face  wore  a 
vexed,  grave  look.  Millicent  noticed  it. 
"He  has  been  annoyed  with  some 
parish  business  or  other,"  surmised  Olive  ; 
"  though  it  must  be  more  than  a  trifle  to 
affect  Mr.  Rufort.  I  must  sa}r,  Jane, 
you  will  have  a  good-tempered  husband. 
If  Austin  has  no  other  praisable  quality, 
he  has  that  of  a  sweet  temper." 

"  I  think  he  has  a  great  many  oth- 
ers," returned  Jane  in  her  quiet  way. 
And  Olive  laughed. 

Mr.  Rufort  came  up.  After  a  minute 
spent  in  greeting,  he  touched  Jane,  and 
caused  her  to  slacken  her  pace.  Miss 
Canterbury  and  Millicent  walked  on. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


97 


u  Jane,"  said  he,  when  the  distance 
between  them  had  increased,  "  what  is 
this  barrier  that  has  come,  or  is  com- 
ing, between  us  ?  " 

Jane  Canterbury  looked  at  him  for 
a  few  moments  in  silent  surprise.  His 
face  was  pale ;  he  was  evidently  agi- 
tated. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  are  speaking 
of,  Austin,"  she  said  at  length. 

"My  father  rode  over  to-day,  and  told 
me,  without  any  preparation  or  circum- 
locution, that  things  must  be  at  an  end 
between  us.  And  when  I  asked  him  what 
he  meant,  and  wherefore  it  was  to  be,  he 
said  I  might  ask  that  of  Mr.  Canterbury. 
Have  you  heard  anything  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Jane — "  nothing." 
And  her  look  of  consternation  too  plainly 
indicated  that  she  had  not.  "  But  did 
Lord  Rufort  give  you  no  further  explan- 
ation ?  " 

"I  could  get  nothing  else  from  him. 
He  was  in  that  inaccessible  humor  of 
his,  which  is  a  sure  indication  that  some- 
thing has  gone  wrong.  He  did  not  get 
off  his  horse.  Mrs.  Kage,  who  in  pass- 
ing had  stepped  inside  the  rectory  gate 
to  look  at  my  autumn  flowers,  was  with 
me  in  the  garden  when  he  rode  up.  He 
made  a  sign  to  me  with  his  whip,  and  I 
went  out.  The  groom  had  drawn  up 
close  behind,  and  my  father,  seeing  this, 
said,  'Ride  on,  sir;'  and  of  course  Rich- 
ard rode  on.  I  knew  by  the  sharp  tone 
all  was  not  smooth  ;  and  then  he  told 
me  what  I  have  said  to  you,  just  in  so 
many  words." 

Jane's  heart  was  beating.  "  What 
was  it  he  meant  about  my  father  ?  " 

"  I  asked  an  explanation.  He  seemed 
too  angry,  or  too — if  I  may  use  the 
word — too  lofty  to  give  it ;  and  said  I 
had  best  inquire  that  of  Mr.  Canterbury. 
'  Or  of  the  neighborhood  either,  for  it  is 
no  secret,'  he  added,  as  he  rode  off, 
barely  lifting  his  hat  to  Mrs.  Kage,  who 
had  come  to  the  gate." 

"  Papa  was  with  us  this  morning," 
observed  Jane.  "  He  appeared  just  the 
same  as  usual,  and  did  not  hint  at  any- 
thing amiss;  indeed,  he  was  joking  with 
me,  and  asked  me  when  I  meant  to  take 
up  my  residence  at  the  rectory.  Do  you 
think  there  can  be  any  mistake — any 
misapprehension  on  Lord  Rufort's 
part  ?  " 

"  Misapprehension    of    what  ?  "    de- 


manded Mr.  Rufort,  standing  still  as  he 
asked  the  question. 

She  could  not  say  ;  she  could  not  im- 
agine what,  more  than  he.  Both  were 
completely  at  sea.  One  fact  waa  indis- 
putable— that  Lord  Rufort  sedate,  sure, 
cautious,  was  the  last  man  in  the  world 
to  take  up  a  mistaken  notion,  no  matter 
what  it  might  relate  to.  That  some 
trouble  or  other  had  arisen,  they  felt 
very  certain  ;  and  a  miserable  sense  of 
discomfort  took  possession  of  both.  Mr. 
Rufort  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Whatsoever  it  inay  be,  Jane,  let  us 
prepare  to  meet  it,"  he  impressively 
said,  laying  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  and 
gazing  into  her  eyes.  "  We  are  no 
longer  children,  and  may  not  be  dealt 
with  as  such.  To  fly  in  the  face  of  pa- 
rental authority  and  marry  in  defiance 
of  it,  is  what,  with  our  professed  feel- 
ings and  principles,  we  could  neither  of 
us  do ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  no  father, 
whether  yours  or  mine,  can  be  justified 
in  attempting  to  separate  us.  There- 
fore, should  a  storm  be  bursting  over 
our  heads,  we  will  wait  with  what  pa- 
tience we  may  until  it  is  weathered,  im- 
plicitly trusting  in  each  other's  faith,  se- 
cure in  each  other's  love.  Do  you  un- 
derstand me,  my  dearest  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  sighed  ;  "  and  I  think  you 
are  right,  Austin.  I  promise  to  be 
guided  by  you  in  all  things.  I  know 
you  will  not  lead  me  wrong." 

He  snatched  her  hand  and  clasped  it. 
They  were  in  the  open  field,  or  he  might 
have  snatched  something  else. 

"  Then  we  rest  secure  in  mutual  faith 
and  truth,"  he  said  as  they  began  to 
walk  on.  "  Whatsoever  shall  betide, 
you  are  still  mine :  remember  that, 
Jane." 

Olive  and  Millicent  had  stopped,  and 
were  looking  back.  Olive  thought  they 
seemed  agitated,  and  she  wondered  :  the 
calm-natured,  easy  -  mannered  minister, 
the  sensible,  tranquil  Jane.  Could  any- 
thing be  wrong  ? 

"  Walk  on  and  wait  at  the  stile," 
said  Miss  Canterbury  to  Millicent, 
whom  she  was  a  little  apt  to  consider  a 
child  still.  And  so  Millicent  went  on, 
and  Olive  took  a  few  steps  backward  to 
meet  them. 

"  Is  anything  amiss,  Mr.  Rufort  ?  " 

"Austin,  let  us  tell  Olive,"  was  Jane's 
hurried  whisper. 


93 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


"  Of  course,"'  he  answered.  "  I  in- 
tended to  do  so." 

Olive  listened  to  his  explanation,  and 
smiled  a  little  as  she  did  so.  Jn  her 
way  she  was  every  whit  as  lofty  as  Lord 
Rufort,  in  mind  and  manner  too.  That 
anything  could  be  supposed  to  happen 
sufficient  to  separate  Jane  and  Austin 
Rufort,  short  of  their  own  free  will,  she 
looked  upon  in  the  light  of  a  simple  ab- 
surdity.  Mistakes,  misapprehensions, 
were  common  enough  in  the  world,  she 
observed  ;  this  must  be  one. 

"  Not  the  least -to -be -comprehended 
part  of  the  whole  is,  that  my  father 
should  have  said  it  was  no  secret  in  the 
neighborhood,"  observed  Mr.  Rufort. 

"  Yes,  that  certainly  sounds  a  little 
curious,"  assented  Olive. 

"  The  most  feasible  construction  I  can 
put  upon  it  is,  that  his  lordship  and  Mr. 
Canterbury  may  have  had  some  quarrel," 
continued  Mr.  Rufort.  "  Though  how 
my  father  can  construe  that  into  a  rea- 
son for  my  giving  up  Jane,  I  cannot 
conceive.     He  is  not  an  unjust  man." 

"  I  feel  thoroughly  sure  that  when  we 
saw  papa  this  morning,  he  had  had  no 
quarrel  whatever  with  Lord  Rufort,"  re- 
plied Olive ;  "  and  I  feel  almost  as  sure 
that  they  have  not  met  since.  Papa 
left  us  before  one  o'clock  to  go  home  to 
an  early  luncheon,  for  he  and  Mrs.  Can- 
terbury were  going  out  afterwards  to 
pay  some  visit  ;  and  we  saw  the  car- 
riage drive  by  with  them." 

"  They  cannot  have  met  Lord  Rufort, 
and  —  and  —  had  any  disagreement 
then  ?  "  hesitated  Jane. 

"  Nonsense,  Jane,"  reproved  Olive ; 
"  They  would  not  dispute  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Mrs.  Canterbury.  To  suppose 
either  of  them  likely  to  dispute,  under 
any  circumstances,  seems  to  me  exces- 
sively improbable.  Who  is  it  that  Leta 
is  talking  to  over  the  stile  so  eagerl}7,  ? — 
0,  Mr.  Carlton." 

"  Is  it  Carlton  ?  "  cried  the  rector. 
"  They  are  discussing  the  world's  pri- 
vate affairs,  then,  for  he  hears  all  the 
gossip  and  can  keep  nothing  in.  But  I 
must  leave  you  for  the  present,  Miss 
Canterbury  ;  I  shall  see  you  to-night. — 
Good-bye,  Jane." 

He  struck  across  the  field,  and  they 
walked  on  leisurely  towards  the  stile. 
Millicent  turned,  and  ran  back  to  meet 


them  in  haste  and  unmistakable  excite- 
ment. 

"What  is  it,  Leta?"  asked  Miss 
Canterbur}-. 

"  0  Olive ! "  was  the  reply,  and 
Millicent  was  breathless  as  she  spoke  it, 
"  I  don't  fully  understand  what  it  is. 
Mr.  Carlton  has  been  telling  me  some- 
thing about  papa." 

"What  has  he  been  telling  you  ?  " 

Millicent  entered  on  the  tale  as 
succinctly  as  her  agitation  permitted 
her.  Between  that,  and  her  own  im- 
perfect knowledge,  it  was  not  very  clear. 
It  appeared  that  as  she  reached  the 
stile,  when  sent  forward  by  Olive,  their 
old  friend,  Mr.  Carlton  of  Chilling  Hall, 
was  passing  down  the  road  in  his  pony- 
gig.  Seeing  Millicent,  he  stopped,  got 
out,  and  went  to  her. 

"  My  dear,"  he  began,  without  greet- 
ing or  circumlocution,  "tell  your  sisters 
that  I  have  refused  to  act,  for  I  will 
never  have  a  hand  in  robbing  them  or 
you." 

"In  robbing  us,  Mr.  Carlton!"  was 
Leta's  surprised  rejoinder. 

"  To  give  your  patrimony  to  others 
and  turn  you  out  penniless  is  a  robbery, 
and  nothing  less,"  continued  Mr.  Carl- 
ton ;  "  therefore  I  have  informed  my 
old  friend  Canterbury  that  he  must  get 
somebody  else  to  help  'him  in  his  injus- 
tice, for  I  won't.  Tell  your  sisters  this, 
my  dear ;  and  tell  them  that  if  they 
should  be-  stripped  of  their  rights,  they 
shall  come  home  to  the  Hall  and  be  my 
daughters." 

This  was  what  had  passed  ;  and  what 
Millicent  now  repeated  to  her  sisters 
nearly  word  for  word. 

"  Was  this  all  ?  "  asked  Olive,  as  the 
recital  ceased. 

"All,"  said  Millicent.  "Mr.  Carlton 
had  to  run  on  to  the  pony,  which  would 
not  stand,  and  I  came  to  you.  What 
can  it  mean,  Olive  ?  Does  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury wish  papa  to  take  from  us  the  in- 
come he  allows  and  turn  us  from  Thorn- 
hedge  Villa,  as  she  did — for  it  was  her 
doing — from  the  Rock  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Miss  Canterbury, 
drawing  up  her  head  in  her  haughty 
way,  "  papa  will  not  allow  her  to  go 
that  length,  I  think.  The  world  must 
have  got  hold  of  some  preposterous  and 
improbable    invention,    and    poor    Mr. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


99 


Carlton  has  heard  it.  He  takes  in 
everything,  whether  true  or  false. 
Why,  Millicent,  you  could  have  contra* 
dieted  it  on  the  spot;  was  not  papa  with 
us  this  morning,  kind  as  ever?" 

"This  is  what  has  reached  the  ears  of 
Lord  Rufort,  then,"  remarked  Jane. 

"  No  doubt.  Lord  Rufort  is  known 
to  he  a  gold-worshipper,  and  Austin's 
living  is  small.  How  can  so  improbable 
a  tale  have  arisen  ?  " 

When  they  reached  the  stile,  the  first 
object  visible  was  Mr.  Carlton,  standing 
by  his  pony-gig  a  short  way  down  the 
road.  Something  was  amiss  with  the 
harness,  and  he  was  setting  it  to  rights. 

"  Mr.  Carlton,  where  did  you  pick  up 
that  sublime  information  ?  "  inquired 
Olive,  walking  up  to  him. 

"  What  ?  "  asked  he,  busy  with  his 
straps  and  buckles. 

"  That  we  are  to  be  consigned  to  the 
Union  to-morrow,  and  our  house  and 
furniture  let  to  the  highest  bidder,  plate 
included  ?  "  she  said,  with  good-humor- 
ed sarcasm. 

"  Did  Leta  tell  you  that  ?  " 

"Something  equivalent  to  it,"  laugh- 
ed Olive. 

"  She  did,  did  she  ?  A  young  goose  ! 
I  perceive  you  have  kept  it  from  her  ; 
I  saw  she  did  not  understand  me ;  so  I 
laid  the  blame  on  my  pony,  poor  quiet 
creatm-e,  and  flew  away  from  her,  with- 
out saying  more.  Miss  Olive,  I  am 
truly  sorry ;  this  infatuation  of  your 
father's  has  given  me  a  sleepless  night. 
Had  I  ever  supposed  this  was  to  be  the 
upshot,  I'd  have  seen  Mrs.  Kage  hang- 
ed before  I'd  consented  to  stand  father- 
in-church  at  the  wedding." 

Olive  felt  herself  in  the  dark.  And 
it  was  not  a  pleasant  darkness  by  any 
means. 

t "  Will  you  please  inform  me  what 
there  is  to  be  sorry  for,  Mr.  Carlton, 
and  what  is  the  nature  of  my  father's 
'  infatuation  ?  '  There's  many  a  foolish 
tale  concocted  in  the  village  club-room." 

Mr.  Carlton  turned  from  his  harness 
to  look  at  her.  He  was  a  genial-looking 
man,  with  a  ruddy  countenance,  silver 
hair,  and  dark  pleasant  eyes. 

"Are  you  asking  me  this  seriously, 
Olive  ?  Or  are  you  carrying  on  a  jest 
with  me  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Olive,  "  are  you  carry- 
ing on  a  jest  with  us  ?     Is  there,  or  is 


there  not,  anything  to  tell  ?  Papa  was 
with  us  this  morning ;  he  hinted  at 
nothing ;  he  was  as  kind  and  talkative 
as  usual." 

"  Then  you  don't  know  it  ?  "  cried 
Mr.  Carlton  in  amaze. 

"  I  know  nothing.  What  is  there  to 
know  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  Olive,  I  surely  be- 
lieved you  knew  all — more,  indeed,  than 
I  do.  I  thought  I  understood  from  Mr. 
Canterbury  that  his  daughters  were 
privy  to  the  arrangement ;  I  fully 
thought  he  said  so.  It  must  have  been 
my  own  mistake." 

Olive  waited  ;  she  supposed  he  would 
come  to  the  point  in  time.  Mr.  Carlton 
appeared  to  be  revolving  matters  while 
he  stood.  Suddenly  he  struck  the  shaft 
of  the  gig  with  emphasis. 

"  Well,  I  don't  regret  having  told 
you,  my  dear.  No,  I  don't.  It  would 
be  a  cruel  thing  for  it  to  come  upon  you 
like  a  thunderbolt  when  he  was  gone." 

"  But  you  have  not  told  me,  Mr. 
Carlton.  See  how  patiently  I  am  wait- 
ing to  hear  it." 

"  Your  father  dropped  me  a  note  some 
days  ago  saj'ing  he  was  going  to  make 
his  will,  and  asking  me  if  I  would  oblige 
him  by  being  one  of  the  executors,"  be- 
gan Mr.  Carlton,  plunging  into  the 
story.  "  I  dropped  a  note  back  to  say 
Yes.  But  I  reminded  him  that  I  was 
born  in  the  same  year  that  he  was,  and 
that  his  life,  so  far  as  anybody  knew, 
was  just  as  good  as  mine.  Don't  you 
think  it  is,  Miss  Olive  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Pray  go  on." 

"  Well,  the  will  was  prepared ;  and  I 
conclude  we  should  have  been  called  up- 
on to  sign  shortly.  But  yesterdaj7  morn- 
ing when  I  was  at  the  Rock,  in  talking 
of  it  with  Mr.  Canterbuiy,  I  said  to 
him  —  just  as  old  friends  do  say  such 
things  to  each  other — that  I  hoped  he 
had  taken  good  care  of  his  daughters. 
And,  to  my  utter  surprise,  I  found  he 
had  cut  you  off  with  the  most  paltry 
sum  conceivable — five  thousand  each." 

A  spot  of  glowing  vermillion  shone 
forth  from  Miss  Canterbury's  cheeks. 
They  burnt  like  fire. 

"  So  I  told  him  I  would  be  no  execu- 
tor to  that  will;  and  therefore,  if  he 
could  not  make  a  better,  he  must  find 
somebody  else  to  act,  I  wouldn't.  And 
away  I  came  in  a  huff,  and  nearly  fell 


100 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


over  Mrs.  Canterbury,  who  was  at  the 
study -door  when  I  opened  it.  Miss 
Olive  " — and  the  speaker  dropped  his 
voice  to  a  whisper,  as  if  afraid  the  pony 
might  hear,  or  the  hedges  on  either  side 
—  "I  think  young  madam  must  have 
been  listening,  though  I'd  not  have  such 
a  hint  get  abroad  for  all  the  money  ever 
coined.  And  her  mother  was  peeping 
her  old  face  round  the  boudoir-door  see- 
ing that  she  did  it." 

u  The  property  is  left  to  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury !  "  remarked  Olive,  her  eyes  flash- 
ing. 

"  Of  course.  To  her  and  the  boy  be- 
tween them.  I  was  too  hot  and  vexed 
to  retain  the  particulars,  but  I  can  get 
them  if  I  want  to.  Its  being  willed 
away  from  you  and  your  sisters  was  too 
much  for  me.  Why,  Miss  Olive,  the 
least  he  could  do  would  be  to  leave  you 
fifty  thousand  apiece,  seeing  that  you 
were  but  lately  heiresses  to  all  of  it. 
Or  let  him  be  just,  in  spite  of  his  new 
wife  and  boy,  and  halve  the  whole." 

Old  friend  though  Mr.  Carlton  was, 
almost  like  a  second  father,  Olive  Can- 
terbury almost  disdained  to  discuss  the 
affair  with  him.  It  was  not  the  loss  of 
the  money,  so  much  as  the  injustice  in 
itself  that  angered  her. 

••How  did  this  family -matter  get 
abroad  ? "  she  asked  somewhat  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  0,  it  is  known  everywhere,"  was  the 
Irish  answer.  "  We  were  talking  about 
it  at  the  magistrates'  meeting  at  Aber- 
ton  yesterday." 

"  Who  told  it  there  ? ,y  persisted 
Olive.     "  Did  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  did ;  I  am  not  sure, 
though.  I  know  we  began  talking  of 
it  all  in  a  hurry,  and  forgot  to  send  up 
the  memorial  about  a  prisoner  to  the 
Secretary  of  State.  When  the  meeting 
was  over,  Lord  Rufort  came  out  with 
me,  and  asked  me  the  particulars." 

"  Your  poor  tongue  !  "  thought  Olive. 

"  And  that's  all,  my  dear.  And  don't 
you  forget,  if  this  wholesale  thieving  is 
carried  out  and  you  are  deprived  of  your 
own,  that  there's  more  than  room  for 
you  and  Leta  at  the  Hall — Jane  will  be 
at  the  rectory,  I  suppose.  You  must 
come  to  it  and  be  my  daughters." 

He  shook  her  hand  as  he  spoke,  and, 
hastily  ascending  to  his  gig,  drove  off 
out  of  her  sight,  for  his  eyes  were  filling. 


Miss  Canterbury  went  back  to  her  sis- 
ters, who  were  waiting  for  her  at  the 
stile. 

"  I  cannot  stay  to  say  anything  now, 
Jane,"  hastily  spoke  Olive,  purposely 
anticipating  questions.  Walk  home 
now  with  Millicent,  will  you  ?  I  am 
going  into  Chilling  again." 

"  To  Chilling  !  " 

"Yes,  I  have  business  there." 

She  was  accustomed  to  rule  things  in 
this  decisive  way,  and  they  never 
thought  of  questioning  it.  But  Jane 
glanced  at  her  watch.  Their  dinner- 
hour  was  six,  and  it  wanted  but  half-an- 
hour  to  it. 

"  If  you  go  back  now,  Olive,  you  will 
not  be  home  in  time  to  dress." 

"  Then  I  must  dispense  with  dressing 
for  one  evening — or  with  dinner,"  was 
the  reply  ;  and  Olive's  tone  as  she  spoke 
was  very  bitter. 

Leaving  her  sisters  standing  in  sur- 
prise, Miss  Canterbury  went  back  along 
the  field-path ;  it  was  rather  shorter 
than  the  roadway.  To  say  she  felt  in- 
dignant at  the  news  breathed  into  her 
ear  would  not  be  saying  half  enough  ; 
but  the  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  as- 
certain if  the  tale  were  true,  for  Mr. 
Carlton's  information  was  not  always  to 
be  depended  on.  He  was  as  a  very 
woman  for  gossip,  and  sometimes,  quite 
unconsciously  to  himself,  took  up  an  as- 
pect of  reports  that  was  afterwards 
found  to  be  quite  the  reverse  of  fact. 
That  no  one  but  Mr.  ISTorris,  the  family 
solicitor,  would  be  employed  upon  legal 
business  by  her  father,  she  felt  sure. 
His  office  was  at  Aberton  ;  his  residence 
at  Chilling,  not  far  from  the  parson- 
age. He  was  a  man  in  extensive  prac- 
tice, and  moved  in  good  society.  Olive 
went  straight  to  his  house,  and  found  he 
had  just  got  home. 

Mr.  Norris  came  to  her  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. The  young  ladies  knew  him 
well;  but,  in  spite  of  his  mixing  with 
them  on  an  ajiparent  equality,  Olive  was 
fully  conscious  of  the  real  distance  that 
existed.  It  peeped  out  this  evening  in 
her  manner ;  and  in  her  heart  she  was 
resenting  his  having  been  in  any  way  a 
participator  in  making  so  unjust  a  will. 
She  turned  to  face  him  as  he  came  in, 
and  spoke  without  any  preface  of  com- 
pliments, her  air  and  voice  alike  redolent 
of  command. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


101 


"  Mr.  ISTorris,  what  is  this  I  hear  about 
my  father's  will  ?  " 

"  How  have  you  heard  it  ?  "  was  the 
rejoinder  of  Mr.  aSTorris. 

Olive  darted  a  glance  at  him  from  be- 
neath her  haughty  e}Telids,  which  plain- 
ly inquired  by  what  right  he  put  the 
question  ;  and  the  lawyer  understood  it 
perfectly. 

"  I  heard  it  in  the  same  way  that  oth- 
ers have  heard  it ;  it  is  the  common  topic 
of  the  neighborhood.  Did  you  make  it 
for  him  ?  n 

"  I  did.  The  reason  I  inquired  where 
you  had  heard  it,  Miss  Canterbury,  was 
that  I  hoped  it  might  have  been  from 
himself.  I  think  if  Mr.  Canterbury  would 
only  converse  with  his  daughters  respect- 
ing it,  he  might  be  brought  to  see  his  de- 
cision in  a  different  light.  Pray  be  seat- 
ed, Miss  Canterbury." 

"  I  prefer  to  stand.  Will  you  give  me 
the  heads  of  the  will?" 

"  I  find  that  its  particulars  have  really 
got  abroad,  so  that  I  can  have  no  scru- 
ples in  doing  so,"  he  replied.  "  I  cannot 
but  think  Mr.  Carlton  is  the  traitor:  not 
an  intentional  one,  poor  man  ;  but,  if 
ever  a  secret  does  get  intrusted  to  him, 
it  is  a  secret  no  longer." 

"  What  is  the  amount  willed  to  me  and 
my  sisters  ?  "  impatiently  interrupted 
Miss  Canterbury. 

"  Five  thousand  pounds  each." 

"  Shameful !  "  responded  her  heart. 

"  And  the  rest  to  Mrs.  Canterbury  ?  " 
she  inquired  aloud. 

"  Mrs.  Canterbury  has  her  settlement, 
and  a  very  large  sum  besides  ;  but  the 
bulk  of  the  property  is  left  to  the  infant. 
In  case  of  its  death,  it  becomes  Mrs. 
Canterbuty's." 

"  All  of  it  ?  » 

"  All.  It  passes  to  her  absolutely  and 
unconditionally." 

"  Does  the  Rock  pass  to  her  ?  " 

"  The  Rock,  and  also  its  large  reve- 
nues." 

"  Mr.  Norris,  do  you  call  this  a  just 
will  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  most  unjust  will  I  ever 
made!"  he  replied  with  warmth.  "I 
said  so  to  Mr.  Canterbury.  I  assure  you, 
Miss  Canterbury,  that  if  you  and  your 
sisters  have  been  thus  dealt  by,  it  was 
not  for  want  of  remonstrance  on  my  part. 
All  I  could  venture  to  urge,  in  my  posi- 
tion as  legal  adviser,  I  did   urge ;    but 


Mr.    Canterbury   has    in    this    instance 
proved  himself  -a,  self-willed  client." 

"  My  father  must  have  been  influenced, 
as  he  has  been  in  other  matters,"  re- 
marked Miss  Canterbury.  And  Mr. 
Norris's  raised  eyebrows  and  expression 
of  countenance  told  that  he  more  than 
agreed  with  her.    "  Is  the  will  signed?  " 

"  No.  There  is  some  delay  in  conse- 
quence of  Mr.  Carlton's  refusing  to  act 
as  executor.  When  he  heard  what  were 
the  provisions  of  the  will,  he  turned  on 
Mr.  Canterbury  and  said  he  would  not 
act :  he  came  to  my  office  at  Aberton, 
and  told  me.  Carlton  said  he  had  hith- 
erto managed  to  keep  his  hands  from  dab- 
bling with  injustice,  and  hoped  to  do  so 
still." 

"  Who  are  the  other  executors  ?  " 

"  There  is  only  one  other  named — 
Mrs.  Canterbury." 

"  0,"  said  Oiive. 

"  Since  Mr.  Carlton's  refusal  to  act,  I 
have  seen  Mr.  Canterbury,  and  again 
urged  upon  him  that  a  more  equitable 
disposal  should  be  made.  I  gained  noth- 
ing by  it,  I  fear." 

"  What  was  Mr.  Canterbury's  reply  ?  " 

"  He  said  that  he  had  been  advised  it 
was  not  an  unequitable  disposal :  that  a 
wife  and  son  generally  inherited  to  the 
exclusion  of  daughters." 

"  Advised  !  "  scornfully  ejaculated 
Olive.  "  Mrs.  Kage  has  had  to  do  with 
this — more  than  Mrs.  Canterbury.  Does 
he  call  five  thousand  pounds  a  fitting 
portion  for  us,  brought  up  in  the  luxury 
we  have  been,  and  with  our  expecta- 
tions ?  " 

"I  submitted  that  question  to  him, 
Miss  Canterbury,  almost  in  the  same 
words  you  have  used.  He  replied,  that 
you  already  inherited  five  thousand 
pounds  each  by  the  death  of  your  moth- 
er— as  is  the  case — and  that  five  thous- 
and more  would  make  it  ten  thousand." 

"Ten  thousand  pounds  for  the  daugh- 
ters of  Mr.  Canterbury  of  the  Rock!", 
was  Olive's  resentful  comment. 

"  Ten  thousand,  all  told,"  quietly  re- 
plied the  lawyer.  "  Mrs.  Kage  has  a  like 
sum." 

"  A  like  sum  !  Bequeathed  by  my 
father  ?  " 

Mr.  Korris  inclined  his  head  in  the  af- 
firmative. 

Olive's  breath  left  her.  A  hundred 
remo-nstances  rose  to  her  mind,  a  hun- 


102 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


dred  indignant  protests  to  her  lips.  So 
many,  so  tumultuous  were  they,  that 
none  were  uttered. 

"  Is  there  no  appeal,  no  redress 
against  these  unjust  wills  ? "  she  ex- 
claimed, when  her  silence  had  spent  it- 
self. 

"The  only  appeal  can  lie  in  getting 
the  testator  to  revoke  them,"  he  replied, 
looking  meaningly  at  Miss  Canterbury. 
"  When  once  the  testator  has  passed 
away,  the  will  becomes  law,  and  must  be 
carried  out.  I  will  urge  the  bearings  of 
the  case  again  on  Mr.  Canterbury, 
but—" 

"No,"  interrupted  Miss  Canterbury, 
"  it  is  his  family  who  must  urge  it  upon 
him  ;  if  only  to  save  his  name  from  re- 
proach." 

"  I  was  about  to  say  so,"  returned  the 
lawyer.  '•'  It  is  Mr.  Canterbury's  family 
—  in  fact,  you,  Miss  Canterbury,  who 
must  deal  with  this.  If  you  cannot  pre- 
vail with  him,  no  one  can ;  there's  not  a 
chance  of  it." 

Olive  knew  it  well. 

"  I  will  delay  the  execution  of  the 
will  as  long  as  possible,  Miss  Canterbury, 
in  the  hope  that  I  may  be  furnished  with 
instructions  to  make  a  different  one.  I 
told  Mr.  Canterbury  I  would  charge  noth- 
ing for  drawing  a  fresh  one  out.  Not — 
pardon  me — to  save  his  pocket,  but  that 
he  might  see  how  urgent  I  considered  the 
necessity  to  be." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Norris,"  frankly 
spoke  Olive.  "  I  was  blaming  you  in 
my  heart  when  I  came  in,  but  I  perceive 
no  fault  lies  with  }rou." 

She  shook  hands  with  him.  He  at- 
tended her  to  the  door,  and  she  departed 
on  her  walk  back  across  the  Rock-field, 
plunged  into  deep  reflection.  That  this 
terrible,  barefaced  act  of  injustice  was 
owing  almost  entirely  to  Mrs.  Kage, 
Olive  felt  sure  :  Caroline,  let  alone,  would 
never  have  thought  of  being  so  grasping. 
And  Olive  was  right. 

In  point  of  fact,  that  honorable  lady 
had  been  feathering  her  nest  pretty  con- 
siderably ever  since  the  marriage.  Her 
daughter  largely  helped  her  ;  there  could 
be  no  question  of  it.  Mrs.  Kage's  former 
modest  household  of  two  servants  had 
been  augmented  by  a  smart  lady's-maid 
named  Fry.  A  beautiful  pony-carriage 
— kept  at  the  Rock — was  devoted  to  her 
special  service,  and  Mrs.  Kage,  with  a 


parasol  in  one  hand  and  scent-bottle  in 
the  other,  went  about  in  it,  driven  by  a 
natty  boy-groom.  A  close  carriage  was 
at  her  service  wheaever  she  chose  to  send 
and  order  it.  Her  table  was  munificent- 
ly supplied  with  the  choicest  fruit  from 
the  Rock-gardens  when  she  did  not  dine 
at  the  Rock.  Fish  and  other  delicacies 
came  daily  to  her  from  Aberton.  Her 
attire  was  now  magnificent,  especially  in 
the  respect  of  costly  old  lace,  and  pinch- 
ing in  mone3^-matters  was  at  an  end.  In 
short,  Mrs.  Kage's  lines  had  dropped  into 
pleasant  places  ;  and  there  could  be  no 
question  that  her  daughter's  marriage 
with  George  Canterbury  had  brought  to 
her  all  its  hoped-for  realisation. 

This  assistance  might  have  been  car- 
ried out  for  her  mother  twice  over,  had 
Mrs.  Canterbury  so  pleased,  and  nobody 
found  fault  with  it.  To  Mr.  Canter- 
bury's great  wealth  it  was  as  a  drop  of 
water  to  the  ocean.  But  to  will  away 
the  daughters'  inheritance  was  a  very 
different  affair ;  and  so  little  necessity 
was  there  for  anything  of  the  kind,  Mr. 
Canterbury's  riches  being  amply  suffi- 
cient to  provide  munificently  for  all,  that 
a  doubt  crossed  Olive,  as  she  walked 
along  the  field,  of  Mrs.  Kage's  sanity. 
Tracing  events  back,  she  could  see  that 
it  was  all  a  part  of  one  deep-laid  scheme  ; 
and  Mrs.  Kage  had  driven  them  from 
the  Rock  to  have  room  to  work  it  out. 
The  birth  of  the  child  had  been  made  a 
pretext  for  Mrs.  Kage's  taking  up  her 
abode  at  the  Rock ;  she  had  not  yet 
come  away  from  it.  With  that  wily, 
plotting,  soft-speaking  woman  ever  at 
his  elbow,  Olive  felt  that  her  chance  of 
being  heard  to  effect  was  very  small  in- 
deed. Bitterly  she  deplored  her  father's 
pliant,  yielding  disposition,  and  the 
strange  ascendency  it  had  enabled  the 
new  wife  and  the  crafty  mother-in-law 
to  gain  over  him. 

When  she  reached  home,  she  impart- 
ed the  news  to  her  sisters ;  and  they 
spent  the  evening  talking  it  over  with 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Rufort.  It  was  deci- 
ded that  Olive  should  proceed  to  the 
Rock  the  following  day,  and  see  what 
impression  she  could  make  upon  her  fa- 
ther. 

"  I  heartily  wish  you  success,  Miss 
Canterbury,"  were  Mr.  Rufort's  last 
words  to  her,  when  he  was  leaving. 

u  You  cannot  wish  it  more  than  I  do. 


GEORGE     CANTERBFltY'S     WILL 


jo; 


Putting  our  own  interests  aside,  I  would 
not  that  my  father,  for  his  own  sake, 
should  leave  behind  him  so  unjust  a  will, 
for  his  name  would  lie  under  obloquy  for 
ever." 

But,  notwithstanding  the  words,  there 
lay  an  instinct  on  Miss  Canterbury's 
heart  that  she  should  not  prevail  ;  and 
the  whole  night  long  she  never  closed 
her  eyes. 

She  reached  the  Rock  in  the  morning 
between  eleven  and  twelve,  when  she 
knew  her  father  would  most  probably  be 
alone  in  the  library.  The  initiative  pre- 
liminary of  the  visit  was  not  propitious. 
The  servant  who  opened  the  door  to  her 
happened  to  be  a  fresh  one  ;  a  fine  gen- 
tleman just  arrived  from  London  as  own 
footman  to  Mrs.  Canterbury.  Olive 
walked  straight  into  the  hall  without 
speaking.  The  man  stared,  and  then 
seemed  to  recollect  something. 

"  I  beg  your  parding,  mem — might 
you  be  Miss  Canterbury  ?  " 

"  I  am  Miss  Canterbury,"  Olive  con- 
descended to  repty,  though  she  consid- 
ered the  question,  and  the  manner  too, 
somewhat  impertinent. 

The  man  placed  himself  in  her  way 
as  she  was  walking  on  towards  the  li- 
brary. 

"  Then  if  you  please,  mem,  will  you 
step  into  this  here  parlor  ?  You  are  not 
to  go  in,  mem."  ' 

Olive  turned  her  lofty  face  upon  him. 
He  did  not  altogether  like  its  air  of 
command,  and  resumed  with  civility. 

"  Mem,  Mrs.  Kage  told  me  that  you 
was  not  to  go  in  to  Mr.  Canterbury, 
should  you  happen  to  call,  but  was  to  be 
showed  in  here,  and  herself  fetched 
down  to  you.  She  ordered  it,  mem,  and 
I  could  not  think  of  dLobeying  of  her." 

"  Sir  ! "  burst  out  Olive,  "  do  }*ou 
know  to  whom  you  speak  ?  I  am  in  my 
father's  house.     Stand  aside  !  " 

He  stood  aside,  foolish  and  humble, 
and  at  the  same  moment  the  butler  came 
forward. 

"Neel,"  said  she,  in  a  calm  tone,  al- 
most an  indifferent  one,  "  you  had  better 
tell  that  man  who  I  am  ;  he  does  not  ap- 
pear to  understand,  I  think." 

Neel,  all  astonishment,  gazed  at  the 
new  footman,  whom  he  did  not  particu- 
larly favor,  from  head  to  foot ;  and 
turned  to  usher  Miss  Canterbury  into 
his  master's  presence. 


In  passing  through  the  hall,  the  door 
of  one  of  the  drawing-rooms  was  flung 
back,  and  the  nurse  came  out  carrying 
the  baby.  Olive,  unthinkingly,  turned 
her  head  to  look  in.  There,  talking  to- 
gether face  to  face,  stood  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury and  Thomas  Kage. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


AT    THE    ROCK. 


Only  the  beginning  of  October  ;  but 
the  woods  and  dales  around  Chilling 
were  variegated  with  the  autumn  foliage 
of  many  colors  ;  the  Welsh  hills,  stretch- 
ing out  to  the  distance,  looked  gay  with 
their  light  and  shade  ;  the  skies  were 
blue  and  cloudless — all  beautiful,  as  seen 
from  the  windows  of  that  fine  mansion, 
the  Rock. 

In  one  of  its  gorgeous  drawing-rooms, 
newly  furnished  and  decorated  to  suit 
the  taste  and  pleasure  of  the  new  wife, 
and  quite  shining  again  with  mirrors 
and  gilding  and  resplendent  vanities, 
sat  Mrs.  Canterbury,  young  and  lovely 
as  when  her  husband  had  brought  her 
home  fourteen  months  before  ;  but  ten 
times  vainer,  ten  times  more  self-willed 
than  she  had  been  even  then.  She  was 
attired  in  a  fine  morning  robe  of  French 
cambric,  fancifully  embroidered,  and 
much  adorned  with  rich  pink  ribbons 
and  delicate  lace;  and  — though  her 
sunny  curls  were  far  too  youthful  for  it 
— she  wore  a  little  cap  of  the  same  pink 
ribbons  and  lace.  At  a  distance,  half- 
reclining  on  a  soft  velvet  ottoman,  with 
one  cushion  propping  up  her  back  and 
another  her  feet,  was  her  mother,  the 
Honorable  Mrs.  Kage,  all  nerves  and 
languishment  as  usual,  but  looking  a 
little  more  faded  than  ordinary  in  the 
clear  morning  light.  How  many  weeks 
had  elapsed  since  Mrs.  Kage  had  taken 
up  her  abode  at  the  Rock,  and  how  many 
more  she  intended  to  remain,  she  kept  a 
discreet  silence  upon.  Its  luxurious 
quarters  were  on  a  different  scale  from 
those  of  her  own  home,  and  entirely 
agreeable. 

Seated  near  Mrs.  Canterbury  was  a 
gentleman  who  had  but  now  entered — 
entered  unexpectedly,  and  given  to  her 
heart  a  wild  flutter  of  joyous  confusion, 


104 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


married  though  she  was.  Perhaps  his 
heart  fluttered  too,  for  he  had  once 
thought  her  more  of  an  angel  than  man, 
young  ardent  man,  often  thinks  woman. 
If  so,  nothing  of  it  was  betrayed  in  his 
manner,  which  was  calm,  equable,  pleas- 
ant, at  the  very  most,  as  a  well-regulated, 
self-controlled  man  should  be  under  the 
circumstances,  whatever  feelings  may  be 
stirring  within  him.  It  was  Thomas 
Kage. 

"  Do  you  find  me  altered  ?  "  she  was 
asking  him,  with  rising  blushes  and  a 
tremor  that  could  not  be  concealed. 

"Altered  for  the  better.  I  never  saw 
you  looking  so  well,  or  so — " 

"So  what?"  returned  she,  in  her 
conscious  vanity. 

"  So  fascinating,  Caroline.  I  know 
not  why  I  should  have  hesitated ;  for 
such  praise,  honestly  given,  cannot  do 
harm  to  a  married  woman." 

But  the  word  was  spoken  without  the 
smallest  warmth  ;  for  all  the  admiration 
he  displayed,  he  might  just  as  well  have 
said,  "  so  uglj-."  In  the  midst  of  her 
amusement,  Mrs.  Canterbury  felt  a  latent 
pique. 

"  I  think  that  must  be  a  new  theory ; 
is  it  one  of  your  own  ?  " 

"  I  should  have  said,  ought  not,"  he 
replied,  correcting  the  former  phrase. 
"  How  is  Mr.  Canterbury  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  very  well  !  "  was  the  care- 
less answer.  "  He  is  always  in  his  study 
from  ten  till  twelve,  busy  with  his  ten- 
ants and  his  farm-business  and  all  that 
trumpery." 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  so  happy, 
Caroline,"  continued  Mr.  Kage  ;  and  he 
certainly  spoke  heartily  now.  "  I  trust 
you  have  found  the  bliss  in  your  married 
life  that  you  hoped  for — found  it  in  all 
ways." 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  of  course  I  have," 
she  flippantly  said,  but  with  the  crimson 
rising  in  her  lovely  cheeks.  "  0  Thom- 
as," she  continued  in  a  deeper  tone,  "  do 
not  let  us  play  at  talking  fine  with  each 
other.  You  know  that  in  marrying  a 
man  of — of — Mr.  Canterbury's  age,  one 
does  not  expect  a  bower  of  bliss,  all  lilies 
and  roses." 

"  Very  true,"  he  quietly  replied  ;  "  one 
cannot  have  everything  in  the  very 
brightest  of   marriages.      You    have    a 


superfluity  of  luxury  and  wealth  ;  and 
that,  I  expect,  is  what  you  married  for." 

"  Of  course,  I  have  everything  in 
that  way — more  than  a  superfluity," 
replied  Mrs.  Canterbury,  her  voice  just 
a  little  fractious.  "  And  then  he  is  so 
fond  of  me!     That's  very  tiresome." 

Mr.  Kage  slightly  laughed. 

"I  can  tell  you  that  it  is,"  she  em- 
phatically repeated.  "  I  must  not  go 
out  at  night,  lest  I  take  cold  ;  I  must 
not  run  out  at  will  by  day,  lest  I  fatigue 
mj'self.  I  am  not  rheumatic,  and  I'm 
not  quite  sixty." 

"All  to  your  benefit,  no  doubt.  I 
daresay  j'ou  find  it  so." 

"  I  might  if  I  tried  it ;  but  when  he 
says  I  am  not  to  go  anywhere  or  do  any- 
thing, I  immediately  go  and  do  it.  But 
I  tell  you  what,  Thomas,"  she  added 
more  earnestly,  "  I  have  found  out  that  to 
have  all  your  wishes  fulfilled  ere  ex- 
pressed, to  know  beforehand  that  your 
slightest  whim  will  be  carried  out,  does 
not  bring  happiness.  It  creates  weari- 
ness and  satiety,  but  never  happiness. 
I  often  wish  myself  back  in  the  old  days, 
when  we  had  but  five  hundred  a-year,  and 
I  had  to  tease  mamma  before  I  could  get 
a  new  dress  bought.  It  seems  now  that 
to  cut  and  contrive,  and  spin  out  our 
income,  was  a  real  pleasure  ;  it  was  a 
daily  object  to  live  for,  don't  3Tou  see  ? 
Not  that  I  would  part  with  any  of  my 
present  wealth ;  I'd  not  grumble  if  it 
were  more." 

"  More,  Mrs.  Canterbury  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, and  his  astonishment  was  gen- 
uine. "  If  I  had  as  many  hundreds 
a-year  as  you  have  thousands,  I  should 
feel  rich  enough  for  an  emperor." 

"Are  you  going  to  call  me  that?" 
she  asked,  her  countenance  paling,  her 
voice  falling  low,  though  the  conversa- 
tion could  but  be  unheard  ;  for  Mrs.  Kage, 
buried  in  her  distant  cushions,  and  sniff- 
ing at  her  essence-bottles,  turned  neither 
ear  nor  heed  nor  thought  to  them.  Be- 
fore her  daughter's  marriage,  it  was  high- 
treason  for  Thomas  Kage  to  attempt  to 
say  a  word  to  her.  He  might  talk  at 
will  now. 

"  It  is  your  name." 

"  Not  to  you.  Surely  I  may  be  '  Car- 
oline,' as  before.  What  need  is  there  of 
formality  between  cousins  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  he  said  in  a  civil 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


105 


tone  of  ready  acquiescence,  but  with 
nothing  in  it  of  a  wanner  feeling. 
"  Some  ladies  would  take  offence  at  be- 
ing addressed  indiscriminately  by  their 
Christian  name  after  marriage." 

"  How  was  it  Mr.  Canterbury  met  you 
last  night  ?  "  she  resumed.  "  I  do  not 
understand." 

u  Quite  accidentally.  I  was  quitting 
the  railway  station,  on  my  arrival  at  Ab- 
erton,  when  his  carriage  drove  past.  He 
saw  me,  and  stopped  it,  and  made  me 
promise  to  come  over  to-day." 

"  Which  otherwise  you  would  not  have 
done,"  she  quickly  rejoined. 

"  Well,  I  had  been  fancying  it  might 
not  be  convenient  to  me  to  spare  the 
time." 

"  I  wonder  Mr.  Canterbury  did  not 
think  to  mention  it.  He  went  to  a  gen- 
tleman's dinner-party  at  Aberton  last 
night,  and  was  at  home  by  eleven.  But, 
do  }tou  know,  it  seems  to  me  he  has  be- 
come forgetful  of  late  ?  I  don't  think 
he  can  be  remembering  it  at  all,  or  he 
would  be  here." 

"  He  is — "  getting  old,  was  on  the  tip 
of  Thomas  Kage's  tongue ;  but  he  ar- 
rested the  words  in  time.  With  that 
fair  young  wife  before  him,  they  would 
have  sounded  like  a  sin. 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing, 
Thomas,  all  these  many  months?" 

"  Working." 

"  We  hear  of  you  now  and  again  at 
rare  moments,  through  Sarah  Annesley 
or  Mrs.  Dunn,  who  both  correspond  with 
the  Miss  Canterburys." 

"  I  scarcely  ever  see  either  of  the  two," 
he  remarked.  "  Sarah  Annesley  goes 
sometimes  to  Mrs.  Garston's,  but  her 
hours  for  calling  are  different  from  mine, 
and  we  only  meet  by  chance." 

"  The  deaf  old  body  !  Is  she  as  ex- 
acting as  ever  ?" 

"  Much  the  same,"  he  answered,  with 
a  slight  smile  at  the  reminiscence.  "  I 
was  surprised  to  hear  that  the  Miss  Can- 
terburys had  quitted  the  Eock.  How 
was  it  ?  " 

A  faintly-conscious  red  increased  the 
delicate  bloom  on  Caroline  Canterbury's 
cheeks.  She  toyed  for  a  moment  with 
her  watch-chain  before  replying. 

"  All  parties  thought  it  better  that 
they  should  have  a  home  of  their  own. 
At  Thornhedge  Villa  they  are  indepen- 
dent." 


"  And  were  they  not  so  here  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  in  a  degree.  It  does  not 
do  to  have  a  second  mistress  in  a  house. 
I  am  sufficient,  without  Olive." 

"  Certainly.  Was  she  a  second  mis- 
tress ?  » 

"  She  wanted  to  be." 

Mrs.  Canterbury  might  have  added 
that  Olive  wanted  to  be  only  in  what 
concerned  herself;  but  she  had  not  yet 
learnt  to  be  strictly  honest  in  speech. 

"  I  think  your  mamma  looks  consider- 
ably older,  Caroline." 

"  Do  you  ?  She  has  put  too  much 
bloom  on  her  cheeks  this  morning,  and 
that  always  brings  out  the  wrinkles.  I 
wonder  sometimes  whether  old  people 
really  look  younger  for  sailing  under 
false  colors — rouge,  dyed  hair,  powdered 
skin — or  older  ?  " 

"  Older,  most  decidedly,"  he  said. 
"  Never  you  touch  any  such  things,  Car- 
oline." 

"  I !  It  will  be  ages  and  ages  before  I 
require  any." 

She  crossed  the  room  to  ring  the  bell, 
laughing  as  she  did  so,  and  then  slipped 
out.  The  answer  to  the  summons  was  a 
nurse  with  an  infant.  The  young  moth- 
er took  him  in  her  arms  outside  the 
door,  and  carried  him  to  the  window, 
where  Mr.  Kage  was  then  standing  look- 
ing out. 

"  Is  not  mine  a  darling  babj'  ?  " 

He  turned  round  quickly,  and  saw 
her  holding  the  child  towards  him. 
His  calm  pale  face  changed  to  hectic — a 
glowing  carmine  red,  as  bright  as  that 
on  Mrs.  Kage's  spreading  even  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair.  It  might  have  been 
caused  by  the  suddenness  of  the  surprise. 
Whatever  the  root  of  the  emotion,  it  did 
not  extend  to  his  manner,  and  he  rallied 
bravely. 

"  A  fine  child,  indeed.  Will  you 
allow  me  to  try  my  hand  at  nursing  ?  " 

Mrs.  Canterbury  put  the  iufant  into 
his  arms. 

"  A  fine  child  you  call  him  !  That  is 
a  compliment  very  wide  of  the  mark, 
sir,  or  else  it  betrays  how  much  you 
know  about  babies.  He  is  not  a  fine 
child,  for  he  is  remarkably  small  ;  but 
he  is  a  very  pretty  one.  They  say  he 
has  my  eyes,  and  all  my  features." 

"  I  think  he  is  like  you.  One  can 
never  trace  much  resemblance  to  any- 
body in  these  young  faces." 


106 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


"You  seemed  astonished,  Thomas, 
when  I  brought  him  in.  Did  you  not 
know  of  his  birth  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it  in  the  Times.  He  was 
born  just  twelve  months  after  your  wed- 
ding-day." 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  I  remembered  the  date  —  the  18th 
of  August." 

"  What  a  memory  you  must  have  !  " 
she  said  rather  flippantly — or  it  sounded 
so  in  his  ears.  "You  are  not  half  as 
awkward  at  holding  him  as  Mr.  Canter- 
bury is,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause. 

"  No  ?  Charlotte,  my  sister,  says  lam 
a  first-rate  nurse." 

"  0,  poor  creature — the  idea  of  bring- 
ing her  up !  She  has  nine  hundred  chil- 
dren, has  she  not  ?  " 

u  She  has  nine." 

"Nine!  that's  nearly  as  bad.  I  hope 
I  shall  never  have  more  than  this  one 
darling.  I  could  not  afford  any  love  for 
another — he  has  it  all." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  " 

"  Thomas." 

Mr.  Kage  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Thorn  — "  But  his  eager  tone  was 
changed  for  an  indifferent  one.  "  Who 
chose  that  old-fashioned  name  ?" 

"  I  chose  it,"  she  answered,  casting 
down  her  drooping  eyelids  towards  some 
point  on  the  baby's  dress.  "  I  like  the 
name." 

The  child  suddenly  discovered  that  he 
was  in  strange  arms,  and  set  up  a  scream ; 
Mrs.  Kage  set  up  a  louder,  and,  drop- 
ping some  of  her  scent -bottles,  which 
she  was  never  seen  without,  stopped  her 
ears.  Mrs.  Canterbury  laughed,  and 
took  the  infant. 

"  Make  that  your  object,  Caroline,"  he 
whispered. 

"  My  object !     I  don't  understand." 

"You  were  saving  just  now — at  least, 
I  understood  you  to  imply  it — that  you 
had  not  much  object  in  life.  Make  the 
training  of  your  child  your  object ;  bring 
him  up  to  good." 

Mrs.  Canterbury  opened  wide  her  vio- 
let-blue eyes. 

"Good!"  she  echoed  wonderingly. 
"  He  will  have  good  enough,  in  all  rea- 
son, Thomas.  He  is  born  to  loads  of 
wealth." 

"  And  without  constant,  never-tiring 
training,  the  wealth  may  prove  but  a 


snare  and  a  delusion,"  he  rejoined,  a 
grave  earnest  light  in  his  honest  dark 
eyes.  "''Precept  must  be  upon  precept,' 
you  know:  'Line  upon  line;  here  a 
little,  and  there  a  little.'  " 

You  know  !  It  had  been  with  more 
reason  had  he  said,  "you  do  not  know  ;  "' 
for  Caroline  Kage,  now  Caroline  Canter- 
bury, had  never  herself  received  any 
training  of  this  kind  whatsoever. 

The  nurse,  quitting  the  room  with  the 
baby,  had  the  door  wide  open,  when 
some  one  passed  it  at  the  moment,  and 
glanced  in.  Mrs.  Kage,  happening  to  l.e 
looking  round  from  her  far  sofa,  caught 
a  glimpse,  but  no  more. 

"Who  was  that  ?  "  she  sharply  called 
out. 

But  her  daughter  and  Mr.  Kage,  talk- 
ing face  to  face  as  they  stood  together, 
had  seen  no  one. 

"  It  was  -the  nurse,  mamma  ;  she  has 
taken  baby  awa}r." 

"It  was  a  lady's  hat,"  said  Mrs. 
Kage.  "Now,  do  look,  Caroline!  It 
may  be  one  of  those  Canterbury  women  ; 
though  I  have  given  my  orders. — 
Well  ?  " 

She  broke  off  as  Caroline  opened  the 
door  and  shut  it  again. 

"  There's  not  a  soul,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Kage  supposed  she  must  have 
been  mistaken.  In  point  of  fact,  Caro- 
line had  not  given  herself  time  to  recon- 
noitre, or  she  would  have  seen  the  butler 
ushering  Miss  Canterbury  into  her 
father's  study.  Mrs.  Kage  suddenly  be- 
came awake  to  her  own  claims,  and  im- 
peratively summoned  Thomas  Kage  to 
approach  her  ottoman. 

"  What  brought  you  into  the  country, 
Thomas  ? "  she  asked  in  an  affected 
voice. 

"  The  rail,  madam." 

"  Farceur !  I  meant  what  did  you 
come  for  ?  " 

"  The  old  business  on  which  I  came 
down  occasionally  some  time  ago.  In 
fact,  to  see  Mr.  Rash  burn." 

"  Dear  me  !  Kashburn — who  may  he 
be  ?  " 

"  An  iron-master  at  Aberton." 

Mrs.  Kage  suddenl}'  emptied  an  es- 
sence-bottle. Iron-masters  could  not  be 
expected  to  come  between  the  wind  and 
her  nobility. 

"  And  to  think  that  you  would  not  go 
to  India  to  be  a  Nabob  Thomas!     Such 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


107 


a  delightful  offer,  that  of  being  made 
into  a  Nabob  !  How  could  you  refuse 
it?" 

Caroline  Canterbury,  standing  by, 
turned  and  glanced  at  him  —  perhaps 
not  intentionally,  let  us  give  her  the 
credit  for  that.  He  did  not  look  back 
at  her ;  and  there  rose  up  resentment  in 
her  vain  woman's  heart  at  the  slight. 

"  India  is  not  a  healthy  climate,  Mrs. 
Kage,"  he  said ;  "  It  is  apt  to  entail 
liver-complaint.  I  was  careful  of  my- 
self, you  see." 

"  It  did  not  give  your  father  liver- 
complaint,"  she  returned  rather  tartly, 
as  if  the  declining  to  go  out  had  been  a 
personal  affront  to  herself. 

"  It  killed  him,  for  all  that,"  answered 
Thomas  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Dear  me  !  I  wish  you'd  not  talk 
about  such  things  as  '  killing.'  Pour 
me  out  some  more  elder-water,  Thomas"; 
there's  the  flacon.  I'm  sure  when  Sir 
Charles  quitted  London — " 

A  rather  startling  interruption  caused 
Mrs.  Kage  to  break  off  what  she  had 
been  about  to  say ;  that  is,  it  startled 
her.  To  see  Mr.  Canterbury  come  into 
the  room  with  his  eldest  daughter,  the 
two  in  animated  conversation,  was  a  sort 
of  shock  ;  for  it  convinced  Mrs.  Kage 
that  it  was  Miss  Canterbury  who  had 
passed  along  the  hall  towards  the  li- 
brary to  hold  communication  with  her 
father ;  and  all  such  communication 
Mrs.  Kage  was  most  anxious  to  prevent 
just  now. 

Even  so.  Miss  Canterbury  —  her 
sense  of  right,  her  best  feelings,  her 
good  and  noble  mind  sadly  outraged  by 
the  news  that  had  reached  her  touching 
the  premeditated  disinheritance  —  had 
come  to  remonstrate,  and  went  straight 
into  the  library  to  her  father's  presence, 
in  spite  of  the  new  footman's  attempt 
to  stop  her. 

But  Miss  Canterbury  gained  nothing 
by  it.  Whether  Mr.  Canterbury  sus- 
pected her  errand — though  he  was,  of 
all  men,  the  least  suspicious  —  or 
whether  he  had  been  warned  by  Mrs. 
Kage  not  to  expose  himself  to  remon- 
strance, or  had  promised  that  much  to 
his  wife,  yielding  wholly  to  her  sway, 
powerful  over  him  then,  certain  it  was 
that  the  master  of  the  Rock  rose  up  in  a 
sort  of  hasty  fright,  and  all  but  stopped 
his  ears  in  his  daughter's  face.     Finding 


that  did  not  stop  what  she  was  about  to 
say,  he  suddenlj'  quitted  the  library  and 
took  refuge  in  the  drawing-room.  Olive 
followed  him  :  she  had  come  to  speak, 
and  she  would  do  it. 

It  was  perhaps  only  natural  that,  see- 
ing Mr.  Kage  there,  Olive  should  hasti- 
ly conclude  he,  young  Mrs.  Canterbury's 
only  male  relative,  was  a  party  to  the 
plot.  Since  that  dinner,  on  a  certain 
Easter  Monday,  he  had  never  been  at 
the  Rock.  Olive,  in  her  somewhat 
hasty  judgment,  felt  no  doubt  that  he 
had  been  summoned  from  London  to  the 
conference  to  strengthen  his  relatives' 
cause  against  that  of  Mr.  Canterbury's 
daughters.  Finding  any  other  stranger 
there,  Olive  might  have  forced  herself  to 
present  silence  ;  him  she  regarded  not. 

At  first  it  was  a  Babel  of  tongues — 
all  speaking  at  once,  and  Mrs.  Kage 
contributing  the  largest  share,  hoping 
to  put  Miss  Canterbury  down.  Olive's 
tone  was  perfectly  courteous,  rather  sub- 
dued, but  resolute.  Thomas  Kage 
would  have  retired,  but  Olive's  enemies 
would  not  let  him ;  they  hoped  his  pres- 
ence might  deter  her  from  saying  much. 

"  Was  it  not  enough  to  drive  us  from 
our  home?"  were  nearly  the  first  dis- 
tinct words  heard  from  Olive,  more  in 
plaint  than  anger ;  and  her  manner 
to  her  father  was  strictly  respectful. 
"  How  distressing  that  was  to  us,  papa, 
you  never  knew ;  but  that  was  as  nothing 
to  the  present  contemplated  injustice. 
Sir,  the  whole  county  will  ring  with  in- 
dignation if  it  be  carried  out." 

"  What  injustice  ?  "  responded  Mr. 
Canterbury,  in  a  timid  tone,  helplessly 
looking  by  turns  at  his  wife  and  her 
mother,  as  if  he  needed  protection. 

She,  Caroline,  went  up  to  him  and 
put  her  arm  within  his.  They  were 
near  an  inlaid  table  bearing  its  glasses 
of  choicest  flowers  ;  Mrs.  Kage  had  not 
left  her  sofa  ;  Olive  was  at  right  angles 
between  them.  The  young  barrister, 
finding  his  exit  from  the  room  stopped, 
turned  to  the  window  and  stood  there 
looking  out,  his  back  towards  them. 

The  injustice  of  disinheriting  us, 
your  unoffending  and  always  dutiful 
daughters — we  have  ever  been  so,  sir ; 
you  know  we  have — and  of  bequeathing 
your  money  to  strangers,"  said  Olive,  in 
reply. 

Mrs.  Kage  let  fall  a  bottle  of  some- 


108 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


thing  which   filled  the  room  with  odor 
and  stained  the  ottoman. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Canterbury,  this  is 
really  shocking.  You  call  your  papa's 
beloved  son  a  stranger  !  " 

"  Yes,  Olive,  he  is  my  son,"  repeated 
Mr.  Canterbury,  as  if  it  were  something 
to  catch  at. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  it,  sir.  And, 
as  your  son,  he  ought  to  receive  a  large 
proportion  of  3'our  fortune.  Mrs.  Can- 
terbury ought  also  to  receive  a  suitable 
portion  ;  she  is  }rour  wife.  Think  not 
we  would  wish  to  be  uujust,  sir,  or  to 
deprive  others  of  what  they  ought  to  re- 
ceive. You  might  provide  amply  for 
them — what,  perhaps,  even  themselves 
would  think  ample — but  you  should  also 
provide  for  us. — Mrs.  Canterbury,  speak  : 
am  I  urging  anything  that  is  not  per- 
fectly fair  and  just  ?  " 

"  Now,  Olive,  don't  bring  me  in," 
said  the  young  wife  in  prett}'  affectation. 
"  I  told  Mr.  Canterbury  these  things 
were  to  be  settled  without  me;  that  I 
should  say  nothing,  one  way  or  the 
other.  If  he  likes  to  leave  his  money 
to  me  and  the  ducky,  of  course  he  can  ; 
on  the  other  hand,  if  he  leaves  it  to 
your  part  of  the  family,  I  don't  prevent 
him.     I  am  neuter." 

"  In  taking  your  word,  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury," replied  Olive,  and  she  was  una- 
ble quite  to  repress  all  signs  of  sarcasm, 
"  I  can  only  remark  that,  were  I  you, 
I  would  not  be  neuter.  You  might 
respect  your  husband's  good  name,  and 
urge  him  to  remember  it.-r-Papa,  it  is 
the  thought  of  you,  no  less  than  our 
own  claims,  the  hope  that  no  shadow 
may  rest  upon  your  memory  in  future 
years,  that  has  brought  me  up  this  day." 

"  It  was  a  most  extraordinary  proced- 
ure for  you  to  come  at  all,  my  dearest 
Miss  Canterbury,  whatever  ma}'  have 
been  your  motive,  drawled  Mrs.  Kage. 

"  Friends  in  plenty  would  have  come 
for  me,  madam  ;  but,  in  my  opinion, 
this  subject  should,  as  far  as  possible,  be 
confined  to  the  family ;  hence  the  motive 
of  my  procedure,"  retorted  Olive.  — 
"  Papa,  will  you  do  me  and  my  sisters 
justice  ?  Will  you  leave  us  a  fair 
share  of  your  great  wealth  ?  We  were 
brought  up  to  expect  it." 

No  man  living — I  think  this  has 
been  said  before — could  bear  reproach 
or  interference  less  well  than  George 
Canterbury.     He  stood  now  something 


like  the  ass  between  the  bundles  of  hay, 
looking  at  his  daughter  and  Mrs.  Kage 
by  turns.  Olive's  strong  impression  as 
she  watched  him  was,  that  a  portion  of 
his  mental  vigor  had  departed. 

"I  —  I  —  you  said  what  I  left  my 
daughters  was  a  fair  share,  Mrs.  Kage," 
uttered  the  unhappy  gentleman,  appeal- 
ing to  the  ottoman. 

A  delicate  pink  tinged  the  lady's 
faded  nose.  She  buried  it  in  some  pun- 
gent smelling-salts. 

"  0,  if  you  are  good  enough  to  ask 
my  sentiments,  dear  Mr.  Canterbury,  I 
can  but  express  them.  I  do  think  it  a 
very  nice  sum  indeed  for  single  young 
ladies." 

Olive  turned  towards  her. 
"  It  is  five  thousand  pounds." 
"For  each  of  you,  dear  Miss  Canter- 
bury." 

"  And  you,  madam,  receive  ten  thous- 
and in  the  same  will." 

Mrs.  Kage  gracefully  opened  her  fan. 
"  Really  these  are  Mr.   Canterbury's 
affairs,  not    mine.     I  am    surprised   at 
you,  Miss  Canterbury." 

"  Father,"  pleaded  Olive  with  emo- 
tion, taking  a  step  towards  him,  "  you 
have  very  ample  wealth.  It  is  more 
than  ample  to  provide  munificently  for 
whomsoever  you  will.  Think  of  the 
injustice  should  we,  your  children,  be 
excluded  from  it." 

"The  baby  is  his  own  child,"  resent- 
fully interrupted  Mrs.  Kage. — "Thomas, 
dear,  do  pray  get  me  another  cushion 
for  my  back.  And  set  light  to  a  pastile, 
will  you  ?     I  am  overpowered." 

"  That  son  may  die,"  said  Olive, 
looking  at  her  father  and  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury. 

Nobody  spoke. 

"  Thomas,  then  !  don't  you  hear  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Kage  fractiously.  "  I  want  a 
pastile  lighted." 

Mr.  Kage  reluctantly  turned  from 
the  window.  Olive  continued  to  follow 
out  her  argument. 

"  Should  the  child  die,  the  whole 
property — if  what  I  hear  be  true — is  to 
lapse  to  Mrs.  Canterbury.  It  is  to  be 
hers  unconditionally,  at  her  sole  and  en- 
tire disposal.  The  whole  property," 
emphatically  repeated  Olive,  "  save  this 
wretched  five  thousand  pounds  to  us, 
and  the  ten  thousand  bequeathed  to 
Mrs.  Kage." 

"  0,  but  you  know  he  is  not  going  to 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


109 


die,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Canterbury,  in  tbe 
same  pretty  little  voice  of  affectation 
that  she  used  throughout  the  scene. 

And  Thomas  Kage  who  held  a  pastile 
in  one  hand  and  a  light  in  the  other, 
forgot  both,  and  stood  gazing  at  her  as 
if  transfixed  by  what  he  heard. 

"  You  do  not  only  destroy  our  pros- 
pects, sir,  but  our  happiness,"  proceed- 
ed Olive.  "  I  speak  more  particularly 
of  Jane.  Her  marriage  would  have 
taken  place  before  Christmas,  and  now 
Lord  Rufort  has  ordered  his  son  to 
break  off  the  match.  Papa,"  —  and 
Olive's  eyes  filled,  which  only  made  her 
raise  her  head  more  proudhy, — "  it  is  a 
great  humiliation  to  bring  upon  your 
daughters." 

Mr.  Canterbury  fidgeted  on  his  legs  ; 
but  his  wife  held  his  arm  tight :  he 
could  not  fidget  that. 

"  You  have  not  done  it  of  your  own 
free  will,"  pursued  Olive.  "  And,  that 
you  have  not,  is  well  known  to  all ;  for 
you  have  been  ever  kind  to  us.  You 
would  be  so  still  were  you  left  uninflu- 
enced. Will  you  be  so,  papa  ?  will  you 
only  be  just?  " 

The  uncomfortable  state  of  indecision 
displayed  by  Mr.  Canterbury's  counte- 
nance was  almost  curious  to  look  upon. 
Thomas  Kage  remarked  it  with  surprise. 

"  For  goodness'  sake  let  this  end," 
murmured  the  indulged  wife  in  her  hus- 
band's ear.      "  Get  rid  of  her." 

And  Mr.  Canterbury,  thus  prompted, 
took  a  spurt  of  courage. 

"  I  will  take  these  family  matters  in- 
to consideration,  and  you  shall  then 
hear  from  me,"  he  said,  addressing  his 
daughter.  "  You  had  better  now  retire, 
Olive." 

Without  any  resistance,  only  with  a 
light  bow  to  Mr.  Kage,  Olive  swept  to 
the  door ;  but  ere  she  had  well  gained 
it,  she  turned  to  speak,  addressing  par- 
ticularly Mrs.  Kage  and  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury. 

"  Pardon  me  that  I  say  a  last  word. 
If  the  result  of  my  father's  considera- 
tion be  unfavorable  to  us,  if  the  birth- 
right of  his  children  is  thus  to  pass 
from  them  to  you,  I  can  only  assert, 
from  my  true  heart,  that  we  shall  be 
happier  in  our  poverty  than  you  will  be 
in  the  wealth  so  gained.  It'is  far  bet- 
ter to  be  the  spoiled  than  the  spoilers." 

Another  moment  and  Olive  was  gone 


Mr.  Canterbury,  feeling  rather  little 
no  doubt  in  many  respects,  intimating 
that  he  had  some  matter  of  business  on 
hand,  and  would  return  in  a  few  min- 
utes, slipped  away  to  his  library  ;  and 
Mrs.  Kage,  with  her  collection  of  nerve 
auxiliaries,  stepped  daintily  from  the 
room  to  enjoy  the  composing  quiet  of 
her  own  chamber. 

Which  left  Mrs.  Canterbury  and 
Thomas  Kage  alone. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   SOLEMN   "WARNING. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Thomas 
Kage,  strangely  silent,  stood  looking 
from  the  window  again,  his  back  to  the 
room.  She,  Mrs.  Canterbury,  stole  up 
to  see  what  he  might  be  gazing  at  ; 
surely  at  something  particular,  with 
that  intent  stare  !  But  no.  The  beau- 
tiful slopes  with  the  groups  of  autumn 
flowers  lay  beneath  ;  the  park  beyond, 
with  its  fine  trees  and  its  herds  of  deer  ; 
the  charming  scenery  went  stretching 
around  in  the  distance.  But  this  was 
no  unusual  sight ;  and  of  men  and 
women  there  were  none. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at,  Thomas  ?  " 

The  question  aroused  him.  His  eyes 
and  his  thoughts  came  back  to  present 
things  with  a  start. 

"  Looking  at  ?  0,  nothing.  Noth- 
ing in  particular." 

"  I  wish  you'd  open  the  window. 
This  dist/urbance  has  made  me  quite 
hot," 

He  flung  up  the  wide  sash  of  plate- 
glass.  And  some  one  walking  along 
the  broad  path  close  underneath,  that 
ran  along  the  front  of  the  house — some 
one  who  had  just  come  into  view  from 
the  house — turned  upon  them  a  stead}" 
gaze  as  they  stood  there  side  by  side. 
It  was  Olive  Canterbury. 

"  Where  can  she  have  been  linger- 
ing ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Canterbury ; 
and  the  words  must  undoubtedly  have 
reached  Olive,  for  the  resentful  haughty 
tone  was  by  no  means  a  subdued  one. 
"  Surreptitiously  cross-questioning  Neel, 
perhaps,  as  to  our  sayings  and  doings." 

Anyone  less  likely  than  Olive  Canter- 
bury to  cross-question  "surreptitiously" 


110 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


could  not  well  have  been  found.  Thom- 
as Kage  made  no  reply  whatever ;  he 
seemed  to  have  relapsed  into  thought 
again.  The  sweet  perfume  of  the  gay- 
looking  autumnal  flowers  came  wafting 
in  ;  and  Miss  Canterbury,  with  her  state- 
ly sweeping  walk,  passed  on  to  the  small 
side-park  entrance,  and  so  out  of  sight. 

"  Did  you  ever  witness  such  a  scene, 
Thomas  ?  Quite  vulgar,  as  mamma  ex- 
pressed it." 

Thomas  Kage,  lost  in  a  reverie,  made 
no  reply,  although  he  must  have  heard 
her. 

"  This  has  given  you  a  specimen  of 
what  those  Canterbury  women  can  be. 
That  is  mamma's  name  for  them — '  Can- 
terbury women.'  After  this,  I  should 
think  they  would  be  forbidden  the 
house." 

But  still  Thomas  Kage  did  not  an- 
swer. His  hand,  with  the  deep  mourn- 
ing-ring worn  on  it  in  memory  of  his 
mother,  was  lifted  to  push  back  his  dark 
hair  from  his  right  temple  ;  his  dark  eyes, 
fixed  again  unconsciously  on  the  distant 
landscape,  wore  a  dreamy  expression. 
Mrs.  Canterbury,  feeling  herself  neglect- 
ed, went  to  the  hearth  and  began  knock- 
ing the  fire  about  with  strange  petu- 
lance. 

"  Caroline !  " 

The  accent  was  so  sharply  imperative 
that  she  dropped  the  poker  and  turned 
to  him. 

"  Did  I  understand  clearly — that  Mr. 
Canterbury's  large  fortune  goes  uncon- 
ditionally to  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  not  if  you  understood  that. 
The  greater  portion  goes  to  the  child.  I 
have  my  settlement  and — " 

"  I  was  alluding  to  the  contingency 
of  the  child's  death,"  he  quickly  inter- 
rupted. "  In  that  case  it  becomes 
yours  ?  " 

"  In  that  case,  yes." 

"  Caroline,  take  the  advice  of  a  friend 
— you  know  I  am  one.  Do  not  allow 
the  property  to  be  so  willed. " 

"  But  why  ?  "  she  rejoined,  resuming 
her  place  by  his  side.  "  If  my  baby 
should  die,  what  more  natural  than  that 
his  money  should  revert  to  me  ?  Not 
that  he  is  going  to  die,  or  likely  to  die. 
He  is  a  hearty  little  fellow." 

"  Let  it  not  revert  to  you,"  repeated 
Mr.  Kage.  "  Caroline,  I  am  advising 
you  as  I  would  my  own  sister ;  as  one 


for  whose  true  welfare  I  have  as  much 
interest  as  it  is  possible  for  man  to  have. 
I  say  it  to  you  emphatically ;  do  not 
suffer  things  to  be  so  arranged  that  this 
great  wealth  shall  revert  to  you  on  the 
contingency,  of  the  child's  death." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  none  of  it  ought 
to  revert  to  me  ?  " 

"  Either  none,  or  but  a  small  portion. 
You  will  have  a  very  large  and  ample 
income  without  it." 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why  you 
say  this.     It  sounds  very  unreasonable." 

"  For  one  thing,  you  may  mar^  again 
— most  probably  would  do  so.  And  your 
second  husband — " 

"  Whatever  are  you  talking  of?"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Canterbury,  breaking  the 
pause  he  had  come  to  abruptly.  "  You 
speak  mysteriously,  and  are  looking 
mysteriously,  just  as  though  your  vis- 
ions were  far  away,  in  the  future  or  in 
the  past." 

Very  true.  His  eyes  wore  their  far- 
off  dreamy  gaze,  his  voice  its  most 
dreamy  tone. 

"  I  once  saw  a  good  deal  of — "  he 
hesitated  for  a  moment — "  of  ill,  arising 
out  of  a  will  of  this  kind.  The  proper- 
ty was  not  a  tithe  of  what  your  child's 
will  be.  It  was  but  a  few  poor  hun- 
dreds a-year — some  three  or  four — but 
the  manner  in  which  it  was  left  was 
productive  of  much  after  distress." 

"Are  not  such  wills  made  every 
day  ?  " 

"  They  are.  And  I  do  not  know 
why  this  one  particular  case  should  have 
thrust  itself  so  forcibly  on  my  remem- 
brance. Nevertheless,  take  my  advice 
— it  is  not  possible  that  I  can  urge  any- 
thing on  you  more  ernphaticalty  than  I 
would  this.  Do  not  let  any  vast  sum 
accrue  to  you  in  the  event  of  your  bo3T's 
death.  Your  second  husband  " — his 
voice  changed  here  to  one  of  lightness 
— "might  get  to  wish  him  out  of  the 
way." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  are  rather  pre- 
mature in  speaking  of  my  second  hus- 
band ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Canterbury  in  sar- 
casm. 

"  Pardon  me,  Caroline,  no ;  not  in  this 
case.  We  lawyers  have  to  look  forward 
to  all  kinds  of  possibilities,"  he  contin- 
ued with  a  smile.  "  Just  as  doctors 
probe  wounds,  we  must  probe  feelings. 
I  have  not  quite  done  with  yours  yet." 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


111 


«  Well  ?     Go  on." 

"  When  Miss  Canterbury  was  speak- 
ing here  just  now,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
I  must  be  listening  to  a  fable.  Is  it 
true  that  any  such  measure  can  be  in 
contemplation  as  the  disinheriting  of 
Mr.  Canterbury's  daughters  ?  " 

"  They  are  to  have  five  thousand 
pounds  each,  including  Mrs.  Dunn. 
And  they  came  into  five  thousand  each 
on  the  death  of  their  mother.  What  are 
you  staring  at,  Thomas?  " 

He  was  looking  at  her  fixedly,  won- 
deringly,  almost  reproachfully.  The 
gaze  said  volumes,  and  the  soft  bloom  on 
Mrs.  Canterbury's  cheeks  grew  a  shade 
brighter  ;  her  violet-blue  eyes  seemed  to 
take  a  darker  tinge. 

"  Were  such  injustice  to  be  committed, 
Caroline,  the  very  stones  of  which  the 
Rock  is  built  might  be  expected  to  cry 
out.  If  Mr.  Canterbury  could  make  so 
shameful  a  will,  I  should  say — pardon 
me — that  he  must  be  fit  only  for  a  lunatic 
asylum." 

"  You  always  had  a  verjT  downright 
way  of  putting  things  before  people, 
Thomas." 

"  Yes.  My  dear  mother  taught  me  to 
be  earnestly  sincere,  even,  when  needs 
must  be,  at  the  expense  of  politeness. 
0  Caroline,  indeed  I  have  your  true  in- 
terest at  heart.  Be  persuaded  by  me  ; 
be  persuaded  by  the  dictates  of  your 
own  conscience ;  and  tell  Mr.  Canter- 
bury that  this  strangely-conceived  and 
most  ill-judged  thing  must  not  be  car- 
ried out.  Show  him  that  his  daughter's 
claims  must  be  respected." 

"  I  have  not  advised  him  either  way," 
she  peevishly  said.  '  "  You  heard  me 
tell  Olive  so.     I  remain  neuter." 

"  And  what  was  Miss  Canterbury's 
answer  to  you  ? — that  you  ought  not  to 
be  neuter.  The  pretence  of  saying  you 
are  is  the  merest  sophistry,  Caroline." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  I  hope  you  have 
learned  to  be  rude  enough  since  we  last 
met.  I  do  not  interfere  in  these  affairs. 
Mamma  gets  talking  to  my  husband 
about  things.     I  don't." 

"Very  well.  Then  change  your 
policy,  and  talk  to  him  yourself.  Tell 
him  it  is  your  wish  that  his  daughters 
should  be  suitably  provided  for.  Your 
mamma !  Nonsense.  Mrs.  Kage's  in- 
fluence over  Mr.  Canterbury  would  fade 
to  nothing  beside  yours;  and  I  am  sure 


you  must  know  that.  Why,  Caroline, 
have  you  never  reflected  on  what  the 
effect  would  be  were  Mr.  Canterbury  to 
disinherit  his  daughters  in  the  manner 
proposed  ?  You  could  never  hold  up  your 
head  again  in  this  neighborhood.  Good 
men  and  women  would  despise  you." 

She  made  no  reply.  The  mockery 
of  her  face  had  disappeared,  to  be  re- 
placed by  a  look  of  serious  thought. 
Something  or  other  in  what  he  said  had 
at  length  made  an  impression  on  her. 
Mr.  Kage  moved  from  the  window. 

"  You  are  not  going,  Thomas  ?  You 
said  you  would  stay  to  luncheon." 

"  I  must  call  on  the  Miss  Canter- 
bury's," he  answered.  "  There  is  plenty 
of  time  for  it  before  luncheon.  Where 
do  they  live  now  ?  " 

"  Thornhedge  Villa.  You  can't  miss 
it.  A  white  house  that  you  catch 
glimpses  of  on  the  right  through  the 
trees,  as  you  go  down  the  road." 

"  Good  morning  for  the  present,  then, 
Caroline." 

He  passed  through  the  beautiful  hall, 
crossed  the  terrace,  and  so  on  to  the 
park.  Caroline  watched  him,  her  heart 
softly  beating,  the  flush  on  her  fair  face 
taking  a  brighter  hue.  Thornhedge 
Villa  was  not  far:  he  might  make  his 
call  and  be  back  in  half  an  hour ;  but 
even  that  half-hour  she  grudged  sorely. 

The  appearance  of  Thomas  Kage  had 
shown  her  one  thing  plainly ;  shown  it 
her  in  spite  of  her  previous  make-pre- 
tence to  ignore  the  fact — that  she  loved 
him  as  deeply  as  ever.  This  short  visit 
seemed  like  a  sweet  green  island,  amid  a 
great  desert  of  arid  waste  stretching 
backwards  and  forwards. 

"  We  cannot  help  our  feelings," 
thought  Caroline  by  way  of  excuse  for 
the  disloyalty  to  her  husband  the  admit- 
ted consciousness  implied.  "And  what 
does  it  signify  ?  So  long  as  I  bury  it 
within  me — and  that  will  always  be — 
nobody  is  either  the  wiser  or  the  worse. 
But,  0,  has  not  he  grown  crotchety  ? 
The  notion  of  his  advising  me  not  to  be 
named  inheritor  after  my  darling  little 
Tom ! " 

When  Mr.  Kage  reached  Thornhedge 
Villa,  Miss  Canterbury  had  not  return- 
ed. Jane  had  gone  to  the  schools. 
Miss  Millicent,  the  servant  thought, 
was  in  the  garden  ;  most  likely  in  the 


112 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


large  arbor,  lie  added  :  the  young  ladies 
sometimes  took  their  work  to  it  on  a 
fine  warm  clay.  And  Thomas  Kage 
said  he  would  go  himself  to  seek  for  her. 

Millicent  was  seated  with  her  profile 
turned  to  the  sunlight ;  not  working, 
but  reading,  her  face  a  little  bent  over 
the  book.  Thomas  Kage  was  nearly 
close  before  she  raised  it ;  and  he  saw 
that  she  looked  thinner  and  paler. 
Turning  her  head  slowly  to  see  who  had 
approached,  for  one  single  moment  she 
sat  motionless,  and  then  sprang  up  with 
a  start,  blushing  a  fierce  crimson,  like  a 
dark  June  rose. 

Ah  me  !  And  it  told  him  no  tale. 
No,  not  even  when  her  hands  trembled 
perceptibly,  and  her  sweet  eyes  fell  in  a 
soft  tremor,  and  the  roses  faded  to  a 
dead  whiteness,  and  the  face  looked 
cold  and  faint  as  a  lily.  He  put  it  all 
down  to  surprise,  and  was  as  innocent 
as  one  could  be  who  had  never  loved. 
The  emotion  was  a  sealed  book  to  Thom- 
as Kage. 

"Pardon  me  if  I  have  surprised  you 
too  greatly,  Miss  Millicent  Canterbury. 
Your  servant  said  you  were  here,  and  I 
told  him  I  would  come  to  you." 

"  But  how  is  it  that  you  are  at  Chill- 
ing ?  "  asked  Millicent,  scarcely  know- 
ing what  she  said  in  her  mind's  tumul- 
tuous confusion.  "  It  is  so  very  long 
since  the  last  time." 

"  Ay.  Some  fifteen  or  sixteen  months. 
I  have  been  once  or  twice  to  Aberton 
since,  but  did  not  find  time  to  get  as  far 
as  Chilling." 

They  were  walking  now  slowly  to- 
wards the  house  through  the  shrubbery 
path.  Millicent  was  beginning  to  re- 
cover her  equanimity  ;  at  least,  of  man- 
ner. 

"  Have  you  been  quite  well  since  I 
saw  you,  Miss  Millicent  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked  ;  for  the  ques- 
tion was  put  in  an  anxious  tone. 

"  Because  you  don't  look  as  though 
you  had." 

"  0  yes,  I  have  been  well,"  she  an- 
swered rather  eagerly.  "  Quite,  thank 
you. — There's  Jane." 

Jane  Canterbury  was  coming  in  at 
the  gate ;  anxiety  on  her  face,  her  step 
restless.  In  truth  she  had  only  gone  to 
the  schools  that  morning  because  she 
could  not  rest  indoors.  So  sure  as  Mr. 
Canterbury  disinherited    them,  so  sure 


did  Jane  believe  that  her  marriage  with 
Austin  Rufort  would  never  come  to  pass. 

"Has  Olive  not  returned?"  she  ask- 
ed of  Millicent,  when  she  had  greeted 
Mr.  Kage,  whom  she  was  surprised  to 
see. 

"No,  Olive  had  not  come  home.  And 
Jane  Canterbury,  of  a  remarkably  open 
nature,  spoke  a  word  upon  the  trouble 
that  had  fallen  on  them,  asking  Mr. 
Kage  if  he  had  heard  the  report.  He 
replied  that  he  had  been  present,  acci-' 
dentally,  at  the  interview  that  morning 
at  the  Bock  ;  and  in  another  minute 
they  were  all  speaking  confidentially  to- 
gether. 

"  The  marriage  itself  was  felt  by  us 
as  a  great  blow,"  observed  Jane. 
"Chiefly,  I  think,  for  papa's  sake;  it 
was  so  very  unsuitable.  WThen  we  saw 
people  with  smiles  on  their  faces,  and 
heard  whispers  reflecting  on  him  and  it, 
nothing  could,  to  us,  have  been  more 
painful." 

"  It  came  upon  you  as  a  surprise,  I 
believe,"  remarked  Mr.  Kage. 

"  A  surprise  indeed.  At  first  we 
never  believed  the  report.  In  truth  we 
had  fancied  that  — "  Jane  suddenly 
stopped,  and  blushed  as  she  looked  at 
him. 

"  Fancied  what  ?  "  he  innocently  re- 
joined. 

"  That  she  was  engaged  to  you,  Mr. 
Kage." 

A  red  gleam,  as  of  a  streak  of  crim- 
son across  a  gray  sky,  flashed  into  the 
cheeks  of  Thomas  Kage,  leaving  them 
afterwards  white  as  ashes.  Jane,  walk- 
ing side  by  side  with  him,  saw  it  not. 
Millicent  saw  everything. 

"  No,  she  was  not  engaged  to  me," 
he  said  in  a  quiet  tone.  "  A  poor  man 
as  I  am,  cannot  venture  to  hope  for  any 
such  good  fortune." 

"  At  any  rate,  she  liked  you  ;  I  am 
sure  of  it,"  said  Jane.  "  Of  course  I 
never  said  a  word  to  any  one  ;  but  the 
signs  to  me  were  very  plain.  To  you 
also,  I  fancy  Mr.  Kage." 

He  did  not  answer,  only  looked 
straight  forward  with  Ids  white  face. 
Millicent  felt  at  war  with  the  whole 
world,  and,  most  of  all,  with  herself. 
How  could  she  in  her  blindness,  have 
indulged  that  mistaken  fable  of  the 
past,  when  others,  not  interested,  had 
seen  the  truth  ? 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


113 


"Well,  those  matters  are  done  with, 
however  it  might  have  been,  and  she 
is  my  father's  wife,"  continued  Jane. 
"  But  that  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
be  disinherited." 

"  Indeed  it  is  not,"  he  warmly  an- 
swered. 

He  did  not  enter  the  house ;  time 
would  not  permit  him,  he  said,  but  left 
a  card  for  Miss  Canterbury.  However, 
while  he  was  shaking  hands,  Olive  came 
in.  Very  coldly  indeed  did  she  look  up- 
on Mr.  Kage,  saluting  him  with  a  dis- 
tant bow. 

"  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Mr.  Kage  before  this  morning,"  spoke 
she  in  a  haughty  tone.  "  He  made 
one  of  the  party  at  the  Rock." 

"  Among  them,  but  not  of  them,"  re- 
turned Mr.  Kage.  "  How  I  longed  to 
take  up  the  sticks  for  you,  Miss  Canter- 
bury, I  cannot  describe.  But  it  was 
not  my  business  ;  and,  besides,  I  might 
only  have  done  your  cause  harm." 

"  Then  you  are  not  an  ally  of  the  en- 
emy?" said  Olive.  "You  were  not  at 
the  Rock  to  aid  them  in  their  schemes  ?  " 

"I!"  His  luminous  eyes,  with  all 
their  honest  depth  of  truth,  shone  full 
upon  her.  "  Miss  Canterbury,  I  possess, 
I  believe,  as  innate  a  sense  of  justice  as 
any  man.  I  fulty  agreed  with  every 
word  you  spoke.  And  after  your  depart- 
ure, when  I  was  left  alone  with  Mrs. 
Canterbury,  I  took  upon  myself  to  ten- 
der her  some  advice.  Let  us  hope  she 
will  follow  it." 

Again  Olive's  heart  went  out  to  this 
young  man  as  it  once  before  had  in  the 
days  gone  by.  It  seemed  in  that  mo- 
ment that  she  could  have  trusted  him 
with  her  life. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  putting  her 
hand  into  his  in  her  frank  but  grave 
manner.  "I  ought  never  to  have  doubt- 
ed you,  Mr.  Kage.  It  was  the  seeing 
you  at  the  Rock,  and  the  manner  in 
which  they  kept  you  in  the  room,  that 
caused  the  idea  to  cross  me." 

"  Never  doubt  me,  Miss  Canterbury," 
he  said  earnestly,  as  he  clasped  it.  "  I 
am  not  capable  of  wearing  two  faces." 

"  Surely  they  will  not  attempt  to  carry 
out  this  wholesale  robbery!" 

"  I  should  say  most  certainly  not. 
Their  self-humiliation  would  be  too 
great." 

"  It  is  Mrs.  Kage,"  whispered  Olive. 
7 


"Yes.     As  primary  mover." 

They  had  walked  with  him  to  the  gate. 
He  wished  them  farewell,  and  set  off  at 
a  fleet  pace  up  the  road.  Olive  and  Jane 
went  back  talking ;  Millicent  lingered 
yet,  and  watched  his  receding  steps. 
Thomas  Kage  had  spoken  of  humiliation. 
What  humiliation  could  be  like  unto 
hers  for  having  beguiled  herself  into  love 
unsought  ?  she  mentally  asked.  For 
having  fed  and  cherished  the  feeling 
through  months  and  months,  deceiving 
herself  with  the  fond  delusion  that  he 
cared  for  her,  when  all  the  while  his 
whole  heart  and  hopes  had  been  given  to 
another? 

Even  already  some  unpleasant  fruits 
of  the  proposed  schemes  were  coming 
home  to  its  plotters ;  and  during  the 
short  half-hour  that  intervened  between 
Thomas  Kage's  exit  and  entrance,  a 
slight  disturbance  had  occurred  at  the 
Rock. 

The  nurse  to  the  little  heir  was  a  su- 
perior woman  named  Tring ;  very  re- 
spectable, almost  a  lady.  She  had  been 
a  resident  at  Chilling  for  several  years, 
and  on  the  death  of  her  husband,  a  land- 
survej-or  in  a  small  way,  was  forced  to 
look  out  for  some  employment.  She  com- 
menced a  da}T-school,  and  undertook  to 
do  plain  and  fancy  work.  The  Miss  Cau- 
terburys  had  been  very  kind  and  friend- 
ly to  her,  and  helped  her  a  good  deal, 
purchasing  some  of  her  pretty  little 
drawings.  However,  she  made  but  a 
precarious  living  ;  and  when  the  place  of 
nurse  to  the  new  heir  (as  the  child  was 
styled)  at  the  Rock  was,  so  to  say,  going 
begging,  Mrs.  Tring  applied  for  it,  and 
was  chosen  out  of  several  applicants. 

"  0,"  how  could  you  ! "  exclaimed 
Leta,  when  she  heard  of  it. 

"  Better  do  that,  Miss  Millicent,  than 
starve  ;  and  I  am  not  sure  but  it  would 
have  come  to  that  with  me,"  was  Mrs. 
Tring's  answer.  "  I  love  infants.  I 
seem  to  yearn  for  them  ever  since  I  lost 
my  only  little  one  ;  and  I  can  do  my 
entire  duty  by  the  child.  As  to  my 
pride,  I  had  to  put  that  in  my  pocket 
long  ago." 

Now  it  seemed  that  Mrs.  Kage,  in  her 
perfectly  inexplicable  antagonism  to  Mr. 
Canterbury's  daughters,  would  not  regard 
the  nurse  with  any  great  degree  of  favor, 
simply  because  they  did.  Although  she 
had  become  a  servant  in  their  father's 


114 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


household,  the  young  ladies  would  not 
put  aside  their  previous  marks  of  re- 
spect, calling  her  "  Mrs.  Tring,"  to  her 
face  and  showing  her  consideration. 
Mrs.  Kage  dashed  open  her  scent-hottles 
when  she  heard  them,  and  seemed  as  if 
she  would  faint. 

Mrs.  Canterbury,  seeing  Olive  quit  the 
Rock  a  little  later  than  she  might  have 
done  on  the  close  of  that  morning's  in- 
terview, had  wondered,  speaking  with 
Thomas  Kage,  what  had  detained  her. 
The  fact  wras,  that  as  Olive  was  crossing 
the  hall  to  depart,  she  saw  in  a  small 
parlor  (the  self-same  room  that  the  new 
footman  had  wished  to  invite  her  to  on 
entering)  Mrs.  Tring  and  the  baby.  She 
went  in  and  took  the  child  in  her  arms, 
nursing  it  fondly.  He  was  the  innocent 
cause  of  a  great  deal  of  heartburning, 
this  little  child ;  but  Olive's  mind  was 
too  noble  and  just  to  resent  it  upon  him, 
as  some  might  have  done. 
.    "  Pie  is  asleep,  Mrs.  Tring." 

"  Very  nearly,  ma'am.  I  was  just 
about  to  take  him  upstairs." 

"  I  will  take  him  myself,"  said  Olive. 
With  soft  steps  lest  she  should  awake 
the  sleeping  baby,  Olive  ascended  the 
grand  staircase,  followed  by  Mrs.  Tring. 
Over  the  beautiful  day-cot  of  polished 
ebony,  with  its  inlaid  workings  of  silver 
(for  young  Mrs.  Canterbury  had  provided 
things  for  her  expected  infant,  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  simplicity  that  is 
most  suitable  to  infants,  but  with  her 
husband's  revenues),  Olive  pressed  some 
more  soft  kisses  on  the  sleeping  face. 

"  You  sweet  little  fellow  !  "  she  mur- 
mured. "  It  is  not  your  fault  that  they 
would  put  this  wrong  upon  us." 

"  0  ma'am,"  spoke  the  nurse,  in  the 
moment's  impulse,  "surely  what  we  hear 
cannot  be  true  !  So  great  a  wrong  nev- 
er can  be  inflicted  on  deserving  ladies  ! " 
Olive  laid  the  child  down  and  covered 
him  over.  Perhaps  she  was  a  little  sur- 
prised to  find  that  the  rumor  was  so  ex- 
tensive. 

"  How  did  you  hear  it,  Mrs.  Tring  ?  " 
she  inquired,  quitting  the  cradle  to  face 
her. 

"It  was  being  talked  of  last  night, 
ma'am,  in  the  housekeeper's  room.  I 
went  down  there  for  something  I  want- 
ed, and  heard  it.  I  have  not  slept  all 
night,  thinking  of  the  cruel  injustice," 
added  Mrs.  Tring,  her  face — a  very  deli- 
cate one — flushing  crimson. 


Very  contrar}7  to  Miss  Canterbury's 
usual  lofty,  though  in  a  sense  courteous, 
reticence  to  her  inferiors,  she  continued 
the  subject  instead  of  passing  it  by — con- 
tinued it  for  a  minute  or  two.  But  she 
said  not  a  word  that  she  would  have  ob- 
jected to  say  before  Mrs.  Canterbury  or 
any  other  member  of  the  family  ;  and 
she  spoke  openly,  her  tone  of  voice  free 
as  ordinary.  Mrs.  Tring  was  not  quite 
so  calm  ;  all  her  indignation  and  sorrow 
had  been  aroused,  and  she  warmly  ex- 
pressed both. 

"  The  snake  in  the  grass  is  Mrs.  Kage," 
she  observed,  "  though  I'm  sure  I  ought 
to  beg  her  pardon  for  saying  it.  As  long 
as  she  stays  here,  ma'am,  }'ou  and  the 
voung  ladies  will  never  have  fair  play  ; 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Canterbury  would  be  quite 
different  without  her.  I  have  not  been 
in  the  house  a  mouth  yet,  but  I  cannot 
shut  my  eyes  to  things  that  are  going  on 
in  it."' 

Olive  made  no  reply  to  this,  except 
that  she  must  be  going,  and  turned  to 
the  staircase.  Mrs.  Tring  attended  her 
down,  and  opened  the  hall-door. 

Rather,  perhaps,  to  the  latter's  sur- 
prise, upon  reentering  the  nursery,  there 
stood  Mrs.  Kage.  And  Mrs.  Kage's 
countenance  was  not  pleasant  to  look 
upon.  That  amiable  lady,  ascending  to 
her  room  close  on  the  heels  of  Miss  Can- 
terbury, had  put  her  ear  to  the  nursery- 
door  and  heard  the  whole  colloquy. 
Which  was  not  very  much  in  all,  not  a 
tithe  of  what  Olive  had  just  said  public- 
ly in  the  drawing-room  ;  but  it  served  to 
show  Mrs.  Kage  what  the  nurse's  sen- 
timents were. 

Tring  verily  thought  she  was  going  to 
be  struck.  Mrs.  Kage  was  in  the  habit 
of  being  as  contemptuous  to  her  as  might 
be,  but  she  had  never  been  violent.  Her 
passion  was  something  to  shrink  from. 
In  fact,  Tring's  little  compliments  to  her- 
self— the  expressed  opinion  given  confi- 
dentially to  Miss  Canterbury  as  to  the 
kind  of  mission  the  honorable  lady  ful- 
filled in  the  house — had  set  her  all  aflame. 
She  could  not  get  over  the  "  snake  in  the 
grass." 

There  ensued  a  scene.  The  nurse  re- 
ceived a  summary  dismissal,  and  Caro- 
line was  called  in  to  confirm  it.  Mis. 
Kage  outrageously  exaggerated  the  fault 
to  her  daughter,  and  the  overheard  words  ; 
she  affirmed,  with  angry  passion,  that 
Trine  was  "  in  league  with  those  Can- 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


115 


terbury  women  to  undermine  the  peace 
of  the  house,  into  which  she  had  only 
come  as  their  spy."  Tring,  not  allowed 
to  speak  in  her  defence  and  the  Miss  Can- 
terbury's'— for  Mrs.  Kage  condescended 
to  push  her  with  her  own  hands  out  of 
the  room — was  ordered  to  be  away  from 
the  Rock  within  the  space  of  an  hour,  or 
else  she  would  be  hunted  from  it.  Mrs. 
Kage  was  not  choice  in  her  expressions 
that  day. 

"  For  pity's  sake  call  my  maid,  Caro- 
line dear,  and  let  her  get  me  some  red 
lavender,"  exclaimed  the  exhausted 
dame,  sinking  on  the  first  chair  she  came 
to  in  her  own  room.  But  Caroline,  who 
was  not  altogether  unused  to  similar 
scenes  on  her  mother's  part,  and  thought 
little  of  them,  neither  called  for  the  maid 
nor  rang,  but  stood  still  with  a  blank 
countenance. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  dismiss 
Tring  in  this  short  way,  mamma,  but 
what  is  to  become  of  my  baby  ?  Who 
will  nurse  him  ?  " 

A  pertinent  question.  Of  all  exacting 
things,  a  baby  must  be  attended  to  ;  and, 
to  say  the  truth,  many  a  nurse  knows 
this,  and  tyrannises  over  households  ac- 
cordingly. Mrs.  Kage,  with  wild  eyes, 
an  inflamed  face,  and  a  phial  of  red  laven- 
der in  her  hand,  vowed  (to  put  it  polite- 
ly) that  "  Tring  the  Jesuit  "  should  not 
eat  another  meal  nor  sleep  another  night 
in  the  house  ;  and  Caroline  felt  helpless. 

In  the  emergency,  when  the  state  of 
the  case  became  known,  one  of  the  house- 
hold servants  came  forward  asking  to  be 
allowed  to  supply  the  deficiency — Judith, 
the  second  housemaid.  She  was  a  sensi- 
ble, willing  young  woman  ;  had  lived  at 
the  Rock  for  several  }7ears,  and  been  much 
liked  by  Olive  and  her  sisters.  But  Mrs. 
Canterbury  felt  dubious  as  she  listened  to 
the  request;  a  common  housemaid  (it  was 
how  she  phrased  it)  could  scarcely  be  fit 
for  the  post  of  nurse. 

"  You  cannot  know  anything  about  the 
management  of  children,  Judith." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  but  I 
know  a  great  deal,"  was  Judith's  answer. 
"  When  I  first  went  out  to  service,  it  was 
as  nurse.  I  lived  three  years  in  the  sit- 
uation, and  Miss  Canterbury  had  a  very 
good,  character  with  me.  When  your 
little  baby  was  born,  ma'am,  I  thought 
how  much  I  should  like  to  become  his 


nurse ;  but  before  I  could  pick  up  the 
courage  to  speak,  Mrs.  Tring  got  the 
place." 

"You  can't  write,  you  know,  Judith," 
said  Mrs.  Canterbury,  much  perplexed. 

''  Well  no,  ma  am.  But  I  don't  see  that 
a  nurse  need  know  how  to  write." 

Mrs.  Canterbury,  ransacking  her 
brains,  could  not  altogether  see  it  either. 
Judith's  ignorance  in  regard  to  what  she 
called  "  book  learning"  was  a  proverb  in 
the  family.  It  told  against  her.  When 
she  first  came  to  the  Rock  she  could  not 
read  ;  the  Miss  Canterburj^s,  upon  discov- 
ering this,  had  caused  her  to  be  taught. 
But,  though  an  excellent  and  capable 
servant  in  regard  to  hand  labor,  Judith 
Collett  proved  very  remarkably  deficient 
in  brain  work  ;  even  now  she  could  not 
read  through  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  but 
had  to  spell  through  it.  As  to  writing, 
when  something  was  said  about  her  learn- 
ing that,  Judith  flatly  refused.  Reading 
was  bad  enough,  she  said  ;  writing  might 
fairly  puzzle  her  senses  away. 

I  hope  the  reader  will  not  deem  these 
small  details  unnecessary  or  puerile. 
They  have  to  be  told.  All  with  a  pur- 
pose ;  as  will  be  found  later  in  the  stor}T. 

"  Well,  I  think  I  will  try  you,  Judith/* 
decided  Mrs.  Canterbury.  "  At  any  rate, 
while  we  look  out  for  another." 

And  thus  Judith  Collett,  the  second 
housemaid,  was  installed  in  the  higher 
and  far  more  important  post  of  nurse  at 
the  Rock.  Could  Mrs.  Kage  have  fore- 
seen how  strong  a  link  that  was  destined 
to  prove  in  a  future  and  fatal  chain,  she 
had  surely  buried  Tring's  offence  in  si- 
lence, and  never  dismissed  her. 

Seated  at  the  sumptuous  luncheon- 
table  a  few  minutes  later,  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury and  her  mother  _all  smiles  and 
sweetness,  Thomas  Kage  had  little  con- 
ception of  the  storm  just  enacted.  The 
master  of  the  Rock,  upright  in  his  accus- 
tomed place,  had  learnt  nothing  of  it. 
Tring  was  his  child's  nurse"  still,  for 
aught  he  knew  to  the  contrary. 

The  meal  was  soon  over.  Thomas 
Kage  had  to  go  back  to  Aberton,  and 
could  not  linger.  Mr.  Canterbury  of- 
fered to  drive  him,  and  went  round  to  the 
stables,  rather  undecided  what  horses  to 
take;  one  of  the  pair  that  he  himself 
usually  drove  being  lame. 

"  When  do  you  go  back  to  London  ?  " 


116 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


asked  Mrs.  Canterbury  as  they  stood 
round  the  fire,  Mrs.  Kage  having  put 
herself  into  an  arm-chair. 

"  By  to-night's  train." 

"  And  when  shall  you  come  down 
again  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  I  fancy.  There  will  be 
no  necessity  for  it." 

"  I  meant  to  see  us.  I  was  not  think- 
ing of  Aberton.  Mr.  Canterbury  has  just 
told  you  you  must  come  for  Christmas. 
Will  you,  Thomas  ?  " 

"  Thank  you  ;  he  is  very  kind.  I  fear 
I  sliall  not  be  able  to  come." 

And,  by  the  cold  and  guarded  tone, 
Mrs.  Canterbury  felt  certain  that  he 
never  meant  to  come  again — 0,  perhaps 
for  ages  to  come.  But  she  would  not 
urge  it.  For  one  thing,  she  was  sure  it 
would  be  all  the  same  if  she  did. 

"  I  forgot  to  ask  you.  Thomas,  if  you 
found  the  Miss  Canterburys  at  home." 

"I  found  Millicent  at  home.  The 
others  came  in  afterwards.  Millicent 
Canterbury  has  altered,"  he  suddenly 
added. 

<•'  Altered  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  am  sure  I  do  not  fancy  it. 
She  looks  I  could  almost  say  careworn. 
As  though  she  had  gone  through  some 
sorrow." 

Caroline  Canterbury  dropped  her  eyes. 
She  knew  what  the  sorrow  was  too  well, 
and  that  it  was  herself  who  had  led  to  it. 

Mrs.  Kage  looked  up  from  her  chair. 

"  I  wonder,  dear  Thomas,  that  you 
could  care  to  call  on  those  people  !  One 
might  have  thought  the  display  made  by 
Olive  here  was  enough  for  you." 

Thomas  Kage  took  a  step  forward  to 
face  her. 

"  With  every  word  that  Miss  Canter- 
bury uttered  here,  I  agreed,  and  more 
than  agreed,"  he  said  in  a  firm  clear  tone. 
"As  you  have  spoken  of  this  subject  to 
me,  Mrs.  Kage,  I  v/ill  speak.  I  have  no 
right  to  do  so  ;  I  am  aware  of  that ;  but 
I  do  it  for  }rour  sake.  Let  me  pray  of 
37ou  not  to  suffer  this  injustice  to  be  com- 
mitted—"' 

"  It  is  Mr.  Canterbury's  business  not 
mine,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Kage,  in  a  voice 
so  unpleasant  as  to  be  almost  a  scream. 
•  Thomas  Kage  slightly  drew  in  his  lips. 
The  gesture  said  that  he  ignored  Mr. 
Canterbury  altogether  in  the  matter,  as 
plainly  as  gesture  could. 

"  Bemember  that  the  money  is  theirs 


by  right  of  birth,"  he  impressively  con- 
tinued. "  They  were  born  to  it.  You 
and  Caroline  are — forgive  me  if  I  speak 
the  word — in  a  sense  interlopers.  Let 
it  be  at  least  equally  shared  with  them." 

With  her  fan  and  her  essence-bottles 
in  her  hand,  and  a  white  lama  shawl  that 
was  on  her  shoulders  trailing  after  her, 
Mrs.  Kage  went  mincing  from  the  room. 

"  Such  a  headache  ! "  she  said  plain- 
tively.    "  Dear  me  !  " 

Caroline  had  drawn  to  the  window,  ig- 
noring the  conversation  just  as  Thomas 
Kage  ignored  Mr.  Canterbury.  He 
went  up  to  her. 

"I  must  say  good-bj^e,  Caroline  ;  the 
carriage  is  coming  round,  I  see.  Fare 
you  well." 

She  turned  to  face  him,  abandoning 
her  hands  to  his.  He  paused  a  moment 
ere  he  spoke. 

"  Will  you  take  my  advice  ?  Nothing 
in  this  world  could  I  urge  so  solemnly 
upon  you.  Let  not  this  grievous  wrong 
be  inflicted  on  Mr.  Canterbury's  daugh- 
ters. They  have  an  equal  claim  with 
you — some  might  say  a  greater  claim." 

"  It  is  not  my  affair,"  she  answered. 
"  You  heard  me  say  I  was  neuter." 

"  And,  above  all.  do  not  you  be  the  in- 
heritor contingent  on  the  boy's  death. 
The  thought  is  troubling  me  like  a  black 
shadow." 

"  Why  should  it  trouble  you  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  It  is  as  bad  as  a 
haunting  dream.  Let  the  Miss  Canter- 
burys inherit  it ;  anybody  rather  than 
you.  Take  your  portion  of  it  if  you 
like  ;  a  fifth  share  with  them." 

11  And  if  I  were  not  to  take  your  ad- 
vice ?  " 

"  Take  it ;  take  it  on  both  questions," 
was  all  he  urged  in  answer.  "  I  think, 
if  you  suffered  this  crying  injustice  to  be 
committed,  that  I  could  never  esteem 
you  again.  As  my  cousin,  you  are  dear 
to  me  still." 

She  tossed  back  her  pretty  curls,  still 
worn  in  the  free  flowing  manner  of  her 
girlhood  ;  tossed  them  partly  in  petu- 
lance, partly  in  vanity. 

'•'  Caroline,  mark  me.  It  would  never 
bring  you  good." 

"  Don't  I  tell  you,  Thomas,  the  affair 
is  not  mine  ?  It  lies  with  Mr.  Canter- 
bury." 

She  seemed  hard  indeed  to  be  con- 
vinced.    He   fixed    his    keen    luminous 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


117 


eyes  on  her,  and  spoke  in  an  impressive 
whisper  : 

"  '  Remove  not  the  old  landmark,  and 
enter  not  into  the  field  of  the  fatherless. 
For  their  redeemer  is  mighty ;  he  shall 
plead  their  cause  with  thee.'  " 

"  Why — what  in  the  world — have  j^ou 
turned  parson  ?"  irreverently  exclaimed 
Caroline  in  her  extreme  astonishment. 
"  Have  you  the  Bible  by  heart  ?  " 

"  A  verse  or  two  of  it  that  my  mother 
taught  me,"  he  answered,  his  tone  chang- 
ing to  a  careless  one.  "  Fare  you  well, 
Caroline." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DISINHERITED. 

Whether  Mrs.  Canterbury  followed 
the  advice  of  Thomas  Kage,  and  whis- 
pered to  her  husband  a  permission  to  re- 
member his  daughter's  claims,  cannot 
here  be  told,  since  nobody  knew  whether 
she  did  or  did  not.  One  fact  was  indis- 
putable—  that  he  never  would  have 
thought  of  disinheriting  them  in  the  first 
instance  but  for  its  being  put  into  his 
head.  No,  nor  persisted  in  it  without 
perpetual  promptings. 

However  it  might  have  been  within 
the  precincts  of  the  Rock,  out  of  it  an 
impression  went  abroad  that  the  unjust 
will  remained  in  force  and  the  Miss  Can- 
terburys  were  disinherited.  As  the 
noise  (I  should  like  here  to  use  the 
French  word  bruit;  we  have  none  so 
appropriate)  of  this  ran  round  Chilling 
and  its  environs,  everybody  cried  out 
"  Shame  ! " 

The  first  real  fruits  of  the  calamity 
fell  on  Jane.  Lord  Rufort,  finding  his 
son  was  not  likely  to  allow  the  change 
to  affect  his  engagement,  went  forth  to 
an  interview  with  Austin  at  the  Rectory, 
and  peremptory  ordered  him  to  bring 
it  to  an  end.  He  was  met  bj'  a  refusal  ; 
low,  coiu^teous,  and  deprecatory,  but  still 
a  refusal.  It  astonished  the  old  peer  to 
such  a  degree  that  for  a  few  moments 
he  was  speechless.  His  sons  were  get- 
ting to  be  middle  aged  now;  the  eldest 
was  approaching  forty,  Austin  consider- 
ably past  thirty ;  but  they  had  always 
continued  to  yield  him  perfect  submis- 
sion. 


"  You  won't  give  Miss  Jane  Canter- 
bury up  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  lord,  sitting 
bolt  upright  in  his  usual  stately  fashion 
in  the  stiffest  chair  in  the  study,  his  rid- 
ing-whip lying  across  his  angular  knees, 
that  were  cased  in  black  silk -velvet 
breeches. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,  sir,"  replied  Austin, 
who  stood  at  a  respectful  distance,  tall 
and  upright  too,  with  nobility  marked 
on  every  line  of  his  open  and  genial  face. 
"  If  you  go  the  length  of  forbidding  the 
marriage,  all  we  can  do  is  to  wait.  Nei- 
ther she  nor  I  would  directly  fly  in  the 
face  of  the  edict." 

"  Wait  for  what  ?  "  demanded  Lord 
Rufort,  his  mass  of  iron-gray  hair  look- 
ing slightly  ruffled  and  himself  too. 

"  For  a  more  propitious  time  :  when 
the  embargo  should  be  removed." 

"What!  you  would  marry  her  in 
spite  of  the  loss  of  fortune  ?  " 

"  Father,  we  are  not  childz-en  that  we 
can  kiss  and  part.  If  I  were  to  break 
with  Jane  Canterbury,  I  should  never 
find  another  woman  to  care  for  as  I  care 
for  her ;  no,  not  though  I  spent  my  life 
seeking  one  the  world  through.  I  fan- 
cy, if  Jane  could  be  induced  to  express 
her  true  sentiments,  she  would  on  her 
side  avow  the  same.  We  shall  come  to- 
gether some  day,  I  hope,  with  time  and 
patience.  If  not,  I  do  not  suppose  ei- 
ther of  us  will  ever  marry." 

Lord  Rufort  stared  a  little,  as  if  una- 
ble to  comprehend  matters  clearly.  On- 
ly in  height  and  form  were  he  and  his 
son  alike ;  the  peer's  face  was  narrow,  a 
secretive  one  ;  Austin's  was  open,  can- 
did, and  good. 

"  And  pray,  under  this  calamity,  what 
would  you  do,  if  left  to  your  own  devi- 
ces ?  "  asked  Lord  Rufort. 

"I  should  not  let  it  make  the  slight- 
est difference.  We  were  to  have  been 
married  before  Christmas,  and  should  be 
still." 

"  What  would  you  live  upon — bread- 
and-cheese  ?  " 

"  If  we  could  get  nothing  better,  we 
should  be  willing  to  eat  that.  It  would 
not  come  quite  to  it,  sir.  This  house  is 
good  the  garden  productive  ;  and  both  are 
mine,  free  of  charge.  My  income  from 
the  living,  is  about  three  hundred 
a-year  ;  and  Jane  is  not  quite  tiisiuher- 
ited.  She  has  five  thousand  pounds 
now,  out  at  good  interest ;  and  will  have 


118 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


five  thousand  more,  at  present  showing, 
after  Mr.  Canterbury's  death." 

"  It  would  be  starvation,"  growled 
Lord  Bufort.  "  Call  it  five  or  six  hun- 
dred a-year,  all  told.  He  member  that 
you  are  a  peer's  son.  Would  it  be  con- 
sistent that  you,  the  Honorable  and 
Reverend  Austin  Bufort,  should  set  up 
house-keeping  upon  so  miserable  a  pit- 
tance ?  " 

A  half-smile  showed  itself  for  a  mo- 
ment on  Austin's  lips. 

"  I  cannot  help  having  been  born  what 
I  am,  sir.  I  have  been  calculating  ex- 
penses versus  income  all  day,  and  find 
we  shall  have  enough  for  quiet  comfort, 
if  Jane  can  but  think  so.  It  is  she  who 
is  most  to  be  considered,  father — reared 
in  so  much  luxury." 

"  But  for  the  large  revenues  expected 
to  be  inherited  bj'  George  Canterbury's 
daughters,  I  should  never  have  given  my 
consent  to  your  proposing  to  one  of 
them,"  was  the  haughty  answer. 

"  That  she  has  lost  the  prospect,  sir, 
is  no  fault  of  hers  or  of  mine,"  said  Aus- 
tin. "  Perhaps  we  shall  be  as  happy 
without  wealth  as  with  it." 

"You  will  not  risk  it,  Austin — never, 
with  my  consent.  If  George  Canterbury 
chooses  to  lose  his  senses,  that's  no  rea- 
son why  I  should  drop  mine.  I  cannot 
help  you  with  money — your  eldest  broth- 
er is  too  extravagant  for  that ;  he  drains 
me  of  all  I  have.  In  giving  you  your 
clerical  profession  and  your  good  name, 
I  gave  you  all  I  had  to  give.  There  may 
be  a  trifle  for  you  after  my  death  ;  there 
can  be  no  help  before  it." 

"  I  should  not  think  of  asking  it,  fa- 
ther," said  the  Hector,  who  was  feeling 
this  to  be  a  most  uncomfortable  inter- 
view. "  But  do  you  not  think  that  the 
fact  of  my  possessing  no  money  should 
be  a  just  cause  for  your  overlooking  the 
deficiency  of  it  in  m}'  future  wife  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  the  old  Lord 
bluntly.  "  You  will  make  her  the  Hon- 
orable Mrs.  Bufort,  next  remove  to  a 
peeress  ;  and  this  is  an  advantage  that 
ought  to  be  met  in  money,  if  it  can't  be 
in  kind-  Let  Canterbury  settle  an  in- 
come of  a  thousand  a-year  upon  Miss 
.  Jane,  and  I'll  withdraw  my  opposition." 
"  She  and  I — I  have  just  said  we  are 
not  children — might  be  allowed  to  judge 
of  the  amount  of  income  we  could  make 
sufficient  to  be  contented  upon." 


"  Contented  in  theory,"  retorted  Lord 
liufort  with  a  grim  frown  ;  "  it  wouldn't 
be  in  practice.  You  are  talking  like  a 
child  now." 

Austin  Bufort  pushed  his  bright  dark 
hair  from  his  brow,  the  movement  betok- 
ening vexation.  To  induce  his  father  to 
see  things  in  the  proper  light,  he  felt 
was  becoming  more  and  more  hopeless. 

"  You  would  be  sending  to  Bufort  Hall 
every  month  of  your  life  to  beg  help  of 
me,  Austin.  I  will  not  risk  that ; 
neither  will  I  suffer  you  to  rush  into 
poverty.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  inter- 
pose my  veto  against  your  marriage  with 
Miss  Jane  Canterbury,  but  the  circum- 
stances compel  me  to  do  it.  Good-day  ; 
you  need  not  come  out." 

Lord  Bufort  went  stalking  away,  his 
head  in  the  air ;  Austin,  spite  of  the  in- 
junction, dutifully  attending  him.  His 
horse  and  mounted  groom  waited  at  the 
gate,  and  they  rode  awa^y. 

Whether  Lord  Bufort  felt  a  doubt  of 
Austin's  implicit  obedience,  cannot  be 
said  ;  but  he  deemed  it  well  to  follow  up 
his  mandate  by  an  active  measure.  The 
Bector  of  Chilling  found  himself  called 
suddenly  upon  to  attend  his  father  on  a 
continental  excursion  of  some  weeks'  du- 
ration— a  substitute  and  the  bishop's 
leave  of  absence  being  already  provided 
without  any  effort  of  his.  Before  Jane 
Canterbury  had  well  heard  the  news  that 
the  parish  was  about  to  be  handed  over 
to  the  care  of  a  stranger,  Austin  came 
to  Thornhedge  to  wish  her  good-bye. 
Jane,  quiet  and  calm  though  her  exte- 
rior was,  felt  it  all  bitterl}-.  It  seemed 
like  the  knell  of  past  hopes. 

"  Is  it  to  be  for  ever,  Austin  ?  "  she 
asked  in  a  low  tone,  as  Mr.  Bufort  took 
her  hand  in  farewell,  when  the  brief  in- 
terview of  five  minutes  was  over  —  all 
his  time  could  allow  to  it. 

Not  immediately  did  he  make  answer. 
He  held  her  hand  in  his,  and  looked 
steadily  into  her  blue  eyes,  sad  now,  with 
a  questioning  gaze. 

"  I  thought  we  had  mutually  agreed 
on  our  line  of  conduct,  Jane  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  are  not  free  to  act  as 
you  will." 

"  Indeed,  I  am — quite  sufficiently  so 
to  keep  my  word,  and  wait.  I  have  told 
Lord  Bufort  that  on  the  advance  shadow 
of  the  blow,  we  had  made  up  our  minds 
to  look  forward  in  hopeful  patience.     Do 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


119 


not  fear  me,  Jane.  Be  it  for  ten  weeks 
or  ten  years  that  the  waiting  has  to  last, 
we  shall  come  together,  Heaven  sparing 

Us. 

"  And — do  we  separate  until  then  ?  " 
she  rejoined,  the  tears  running  from  her 
eyes. 

"  Most  certainly  not.  Our  intercourse 
will  be  the  same — you  permitting  it — 
that  it  has  been.  My  father  cannot  con- 
trol that,  though  he  may  put  his  veto  on 
the  one  serious  act  of  a  son's  life — mar- 
riage. And  now,  Jane,  time  is  up. 
God  bless  37ou  ! " 

A  minute  longer  yet,  and  then  the 
parting  was  over. 

Kind  gossips  said  it  was  to  be  a  final 
separation.  Mrs.  Kage,  gently  fanning 
herself,  observed  to  a  friend  in  confidence 
that,  for  her  part,  she  never  had  believed 
in  the  serious  attentions  of  the  Honorable 
Mr.  Rufort  to  Jane  Canterbuiy. 

Meanwhile  the  will  remained  in  the 
possession  of  Mr.  Norris  M?i-executed ; 
for  that  slow  solicitor,  what  with  this  ex- 
cuse and  that  excuse,  contrived  to  delay 
it  utterly.  But  one  day  Mr.  Canter- 
bury's large  barouche  drove  into  Aber- 
ton,  and  drew  up  before  the  lawyer's 
office.  The  carriage  was  well  filled  ; 
Mrs.  Canterbury  and  her  mother  sat  in 
it  side  by  side,  all  feathers  and  finery  ; 
Mr.  Canterbury  opposite  to  them,  and  the 
young  heir  on  the  lap  of  the  new  nurse, 
Judith.  And  it  may  be  observed,  en 
parenthese,  that  Judith  was  proving 
herself  so  apt  at  her  new  duties,  and 
gave  so  much  satisfaction  in  them,  as  to 
stand  a  fair  chance  of  remaining  iu 
them  permanently.  The  footman  came 
round  to  open  the  carriage-door  for  his 
master,  who  alighted  and  went  in. 

Country  offices  are  not  always  on  a 
magnificent  scale.  Mr.  Norris's  consis- 
ted of  one  room,  and  what  might  be 
called  a  large  closet.  The  closet  was  for 
Mr.  Norris's  two  clerks  ;  the  room  for 
himself  and  his  clients.  Just  now  the 
lawyer  was  at  home  alone,  so  he  and 
Mr.  Canterbury  had  the  office  to  them- 
selves. 

George  Canterbury  looked  more  of  a 
beau  than  usual.  He  had  been  getting 
younger  and  younger  ever  since  his  mar- 
riage ;  that  is,  certain  adjuncts  of  his 
had.  His  teeth  were  newer  and  whiter ; 
his  auburn  hair  had  a  fuller  and  more 
graceful    flow  ;    his   clothes  would  have 


become  a  young  fellow  just  out  of  his 
teens.  Whether  the  sexagenarian, 
George  Canterbury,  looked  the  older  or 
the  younger  for  all  this,  was  a  mutter  of 
opinion  :  some  hold  to  the  belief  that 
the  more  craftily  an  ancient  man  and 
woman  endeavor  to  hide  the  ravages  of 
time  by  false  adornments,  the  older  they 
louk.  I  think  it  is  so.  Art  cannot  real- 
ly contend  with  Nature. 

"  Is  my  will  ready  for  signature,  Mr. 
Norris  ?  " 

"Not  quite,  sir,"  was  the  lawyer's  re- 
ply, who  had  given  up  to  Mr.  Canter- 
bury the  post  of  honor  in  the  arm-chair, 
and  had  taken  his  own  seat  opposite. 

"  Not  quite  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Canter- 
bury. "This  is  the  fourth  or  fifth  time 
I  have  come  here  asking  the  same  ques- 
tion, and  beeu  met  with  the  same 
answer." 

"  I  have  been  very  busy,"  said  Mr. 
Norris. 

"  You  must  find  me  a  better  excuse 
than  that.  My  business  has  not  been 
accustomed  to  wait  for  other  people's." 

"  The  truth  is,  Mr.  Canterbury,  that 
I  do  not  like  the  will,"  spoke  the  law- 
yer ;  "  but  I  have  said  so  until  I  am 
tired  of  saying  it." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  not  submit  to 
another  day's  delay.  As  you  object  to 
act  for  me — and  these  excuses  and  pro- 
crastinations amount  to  it — I  shall  put 
it  in  the  hands  of  Watkins." 

And  Mr.  Canterbmy  evidently  meant 
what  he  said.  The  law}rer  knitted  his 
brow  :  Watkins  was  a  rival  solicitor  in 
Aberton. 

"  The  injustice  of  such  a  will,  sir — " 
"  You  have  said  quite  enough  on  that 
score,  Norris,"  interrupted  the  master 
of  the  Rock,  drawing  himself  angrily 
up.  '•'  I  did  not  come  here  to  listen  to 
more  of  it.  This  is  Tuesday.  If  you 
choose  to  undertake  that  the  will  shall 
be  ready  for  signature  by  this  hour  ou 
Thursday,  I  still  give  you  the  option  of 
drawing  it  up.  if  you  will  not,  I  go  at 
once  to  Watkins." 

That  there  would  be  no  reprieve  from 
the  unjust  will,  Mr.  Norris  had  long 
been  sure  of;  and  so — he  embraced  the 
alternative.  As  it  must  be  done,  as 
well  he  should  do  it  as  another. 

"  Very  well.  You  force  me  to  this, 
Mr.  Canterbury.  I  will  draw  up  the 
will ;    but    I    do    it    uuder    protest,    and 


120 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


wash  my  hands  of  consequences. 
What  are  to  be  its  provisions  ?  " 

"  Exactly  what  the  last  were  :  except 
in  the  matter  of  executors." 

"  There  must  be  a  change  in  them," 
replied  the  lawyer  in  a  cynical  kind  of 
tone,  that  his  client  perceived  and  did 
not  like.  "  Both  Lord  Rufort  and  Mr. 
Carlton  have  notified  to  me  their  refusal 
to  act." 

"  I  shall  not  be  so  courteous  this  time 
as  to  ask  the  question,"  said  Mr.  Can- 
terbury ;  "  and  you  will  have  the  good- 
ness, Mr.  Norris,  not  to  let  the  name  of 
the  executor  transpire." 

The  lawyer  caught  at  the  word. 

';  Executor !  Do  you  mean  to  have 
but  one  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  enough,"  said  George 
Canterbury. 

Five  minutes  more  of  conversation,  a 
reiteration  of  the  former  will's  chief  pro- 
visions, lest  the  lawyer  should  have  for- 
gotten them,  and  then  the  master  of  the 
Rock  went  out  to  his  waiting  carriage. 
Mrs.  Kage,  glancing  at  him  over  her  un- 
dulating fan,  which  she  used  equally  in- 
doors and  out,  a  sharp  keen  glance,  as 
he  took  his  seat  in  front  of  her,  made 
smiling  way  for  him. 

"  Is  it  at  length  signed,  dear  Mr.  Can- 
terbury ?  "  she  sweetly  asked. 

"  No,  Norris  has  not  got  it  ready.  It 
will  be  signed  on  Thursday." 

"0!"  said  Mrs.  Kage  sharply. 
"That  man  never  has  anything  read}'. 
I  don't  like  him." 

"  In  accordance  with  the  positive  di- 
rections that  he  could  no  longer  evade, 
Mr.  Norris  drew  out  the  will  ;  and  at 
the  appointed  time  it  was  duly  executed. 
How  the  report  of  the  fact  got  about 
was  not  known  ;  but  that  it  was  very 
speedily  public  property  was  indispensa- 
ble. "  Shame,"  again  said  the  neigh- 
borhood.    "  Shame,  and  double  shame  !  " 

So  it  was  settled  definitely  ;  and 
the  Miss  Canterburys  were,  so  to  say, 
disinherited.  The  first  brunt  of  the 
shock  over,  they  set  themselves  to  make 
the  best  of  it ;  just  as  they  had  done  in 
regard  to  their  father's  marriage.  That 
he  was  no  longer  in  possession  of  his 
full  vigorous  intellect  (not  that  it  had 
ever  boasted  great  things),  they  fully 
believed.  Olive  thought  Mrs.  Kage 
could  not  be  in  hers,  or  she  never  would 


have  shown  herself  so  strangely  grasp- 
ing and  covetous.  Olive,  large-minded, 
generous-hearted,  had  3'et  to  learn  what 
an  unprincipled  greedy  woman  is  capa- 
ble of,  and  how  fast  she  can  drive  when 
the  reins  are  put  temporarily  in  her 
hands.  It  was  a  dangerous  temptation  ; 
and  Lord  Gunse's  rather  battered  daugh- 
ter went  into  it  wholesale,  lacking 
strength  to  resist  and  moderation  to 
temper.  Caroline  Canterbury  could 
have  come  to  the  rescue,  but  did  not. 

But  the  wholesome  advice  of  Thomas 
Kage,  and  the  impressive  words  it  was 
couched  in  would  not  leave  Caroline.  It 
was  in  her  mind  always.  One  night  she 
dreamt  that  she  had  not  followed  his  ad- 
vice, that  the  money  all  descended  to 
her  and  her  little  son,  and  that  some 
terrible,  ill  supervened.  She  thought 
she  saw  the  baby  sitting  on  the  carpet, 
staring  up  at  an  enormous  mountain  of 
3Tellow  gold — sovereigns — towering  up 
before  him.  Suddenly  her  child's  face 
changed  to  one  of  great  and  exceeding 
fear  ;  and  in  the  same  moment  the  gold- 
en mountain  began  to  change.  Into 
what,  she  did  not  know  ;  never,  never 
afterwards  could  she  remember ;  only 
that  it  was  something  dreadful  to  look 
upon.  Caroline  awoke  with  the  amaz- 
ing terror ;  and  for  half  an  hour  she 
literally  shook  as  she  lay,  her  head 
damp  with  sweat. 

"  I'll  tell  Mr.  Canterbury  to  make  a 
just  will,"  she  said  to  herself  in  the 
moment's  agony. 

Could  we  but  keep  our  good  resolu- 
tions, how  very  different  things  might 
be  in  this  world  !  Had  Caroline  Can- 
terbury kept  hers,  and  whispered  the 
word  to  her  husband  that  would  set  mat- 
ters right,  the  word  that  the  man  was 
longing  for — for,  though  a  very  reed  in 
her  hands  and  her  mother's,  there  is  no 
doubt  his  conscience  pricked  him  alwa}\s 
on  the  score  of  his  once-loved  and  still- 
respected  daughters — had  she  kept  this 
resolution,  the  chief  ill  that  this  story 
has  yet  to  tell  of  would  never  have 
taken  place.  Dajdight  chased  away 
ghostly  fancies,  and  Caroline's  dream 
faded  before  real ity,  although  it  had  per- 
haps come  from  her  guardian  angel. 

Mr.  Rufort  got  home  in  November. 
The  first  intimation  people  had  of  his 
return  was  the  seeing  him  in  the  read- 
ing-desk when  they  went  to  church  on 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


121 


Sunda}r  morning.  The  parish  was  not 
large,  and  he  kept  no  curate.  Jane 
Canterbury  grew  red  and  white  with  as- 
tonishment ;  she  naturally  asked  herself 
how  long  he  had  been  back.  It  was  a 
busy  day  with  the  Rector;  be  had  come 
home  to  find  sickness  in  the  district ; 
and,  beyond  a  hand-shake  outside  the 
church -door  after  both  morning  and 
afternoon  service,  Jane  had  no  communi- 
cation with  him. 

Late  the  following  afternoon  he  came 
to  call.  Olive  and  Leta  were  out;  only 
Jane  was  there.  The  dusk  of  the  No- 
vember twilight  was  already  spreading 
its  wings  on  the  earth  when  Jane  rose 
up  to  greet  him. 

"I  hear  it  is  all  definitively  settled, 
Jane,"  he  observed,  after  a  few  minutes 
given  to  general  conversation  ;  "  that 
Mi'.  Canterbur}'  has  positively  signed 
his  unjust  will  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  in  a  low  tone, 
feeling  very  uncomfortable.  "  I  am 
ashamed  to  confess  it,  for  papa's  sake." 

"And  for  the  sake  of  others  also,  I 
should  say,"  added  Mr.  Rufort.  "  It  is 
Mrs.  Canterbury's  work ;  there  cannot 
be  a  doubt  of  that ;  and  very  especially 
her  mothers." 

"  0,  of  course.  We  have  been  laying 
out  our  plans  in  accordance  with  the 
change  of  prospect,  and  are  already  be- 
ginning to  act  upon  them,''  added  Jane. 
"  Papa  intends  to  continue  our  present 
allowance  during  his  life  ;  there  is  to  be 
no  alteration  in  that,  and  we  shall  save 
what  we  can  out  of  it.  One  or  two 
of  our  servants  must  be  parted  with  ; 
our  carriage  is  already  laid  down  ;  and, 
in  short,  we  are  about  to  live  in  the 
small  style  that  we  shall  be  compelled  to 
adopt  in  after  }Tears." 

"  You  say  '  we/  "  remarked  Mr.  Ru- 
fort. 

"  Yes.     Olive  and  Leta  and  myself." 

"  But  what  is  the  Rectory  to  do, 
Jane  ?  " 

"  0  Austin,  do  not  play  with  me." 

The  question  was  nearly  too  much  for 
her.  While  trying  to  speak  very  calm- 
ly, her  heart  had  been  full  to  overflow- 
ing. She  supposed  he  had  put  it  in  idle 
jest.  Mr.  Rufort  crossed  over  to  her, 
and  she  stood  up. 

"  Will  you  have  me  at  once,  Jane,  un- 
der the  present  state  of  things  ?  " 

Could  he  be  jesting  still  ?     Jane  Can- 


terbury turned  and  looked  into  the  fire, 
her  hands  and  heart  alike  trembling. 

"You  know  how  small  are  the  reve- 
nues of  my  living,  Jane,"  resumed  Mr. 
Rufort,  standing  close  to  her.  "The 
merest  bagatelle  in  comparison  with 
those  of  the  Rock  ;  a  poor  trifle  even 
compared  to  what  you  enjoy  here.  The 
consciousness  of  this  lies  upon  me  as  I 
speak,  and  so  I  may  not  press  the  ques- 
tion, but  only  put  it  to  you  quietly  and 
— I  had  almost  said — coldly.  Knowing 
what  my  income  is,  will  you  venture  up- 
on it,  and  come  home  to  me  ?" 

"  What !  in  defiance  of  Lord  Rufort  ? 
0  Austin!" 

"No;  were  he  defiant  still,  I  should 
not  ask  you." 

A  wild  rush  of  happiness  in  her  heart, 
a  glow  of  rapture  in  her  blue  eyes,  as 
she  turned  to  him.  He  put  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder,  and  his  tone,  losing 
the  formality  to  which  he  had  constrain- 
ed it,  became  low  and  sweet. 

"  Lord  Rufort  has  come  to  his  senses, 
Jane.  In  the  weeks  I  have  been  spend- 
ing with  him  on  the  Continent,  I 
believe  he  grew  to  see  that  you  and  I 
both  meant  waiting  ;  that  our  patience 
might  endure  beyond  his  opposition. 
On  Saturday,  when  I  left  him  at  the 
Hall,  he  said  just  a  word,  a  tantalizing 
word,  which  might  mean  one  thing  as 
well  as  another.  So  this  morning  I 
went  over  after  breakfast  to  put  the 
question  decisively  to  him  :  would  he 
sanction  our  union  ?  I  had  to  wait 
three  hours,  for  he  had  gone  to  Aber- 
ton." 

Jane  was  waiting  now  ;  Mr.  Rufort 
had  paused. 

"  And  he  gave  me  his  answer,  Jane. 
He  informed  me  that,  if  you  and  I  are 
still  so  foolish  as  to  wish  to  set  up  on 
bread-and-cheese,  he  will  not  oppose  our 
doing  it,  as  it  is  a  matter  chiefly  affecting 
ourselves  personally.  One  proviso  he 
makes — that  when  the  Rectory  shall  be 
filled  with  children,  we  do  not  go  to  him 
for  help  to  keep  them." 

The  tears  were  stealing  down  her 
glowing  cheeks. 

"  Is  it  true  ?  "  she  softly  whispered. 

"  Quite  true,  Jane.  So  far  as  my  fa- 
ther's consent  and  approval  are  concern- 
ed, I  may  take  you  home  to  bread-and- 
cheese  to-morrow.  Upon  the  bread-and- 
cheese    view  of  the    affair,    he    has    all 


122 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


along  dwelt  particularly.  But  the  scru- 
ples are  ou  my  part  now." 

She  glanced  quickly  up. 

"Much  as  we  had  learned  to  care  for 
each  other,  Jane,  I  should  never  have 
asked  you  to  share  my  small  income  but 
for  your  possessing  ample  means  of  your 
own.  I  should  have  felt  that  I  was  not 
justified  in  doing  it,  reared,  as  you  had 
been,  in  luxury." 

"  Would  your  scruples  have  been  for 
me,  or  for  yourself?  " 

"Jane!" 

A  bright  smile  stole  over  her  face. 

"  We  shall  not  be  so  ver}T  badly  off, 
Austin.     I  have  a  little  still,  you  know." 

"  You  will  not  be  afraid  ?  " 

«  Afraid  ! " 

Mr.  Rufort  took  Jane  in  his  arms  as 
tenderly  as  he  was  wont  to  take  the  ba- 
bies who  were  brought  to  him  to  be 
christened.  The  suspense  and  the 
trouble  were  over. 

"We  can  keep  to  our  old  arrange- 
ment, Jane,  my  darling.  And  I  shall 
have  you  at  the  Rectory  before  Christ- 
mas." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

SPRING    ROUND    AGAIN. 

With  every  crevice  in  the  large  bed- 
room, through  which  air  could  enter, 
stopped  ;  with  a  roaring  fire  in  the 
grate ;  with  crimson  draperies  of  silk 
and  wool  at  the  windows,  and  a  hand- 
some screen  at  the  back  of  the  sofa,  the 
chamber  was  sent  up  to  nearly  fever-heat. 
Thomas  Kage  felt  it  so,  what  with  the 
real  atmosphere  and  the  trimming  he 
was  getting. 

On  the  sofa,  enveloped  in  an  Indian 
shawl,  and  an  ornamental  night-cap  cov- 
ering her  white  hair,  sat  Mrs.  Garston. 
Her  gray  eyes,  vigorous  as  they  used  to 
be,  were  glaring  with  angry  brightness  on 
Thomas  Kage.  She  was  a  healthy, 
strong  old  lady  ;  but  early  in  the  month 
of  January,  that  foe  to  old  and  young, 
bronchitis  (which,  it  seems  to  me,  was 
not  known  much  of  until  recent  years), 
attacked  her,  and  she  really  had  had  a 
fight  for  life.  Her  good  constitution 
and  excellent  habits  saved  her.  She 
was  out  of  danger  now,  but  remained  a 
prisoner  to  her   chamber    until   warmer 


weather  should  set  in,  for  the  spring  was 
early  yet. 

Two  years  had  now  elapsed  since  the 
death  of  Lady  Kage,  and  Thomas  Kage 
had  continued  to  reside  in  the  house  ad- 
joining, according  to  his  mother's  evi- 
dent wish.  But  he  did  not  get  ou  fast  ; 
and  expenses,  quietly  though  he  lived, 
ate  up  every  shilling  of  his  earnings. 
In  point  of  fact,  the  house,  with  its  cost, 
was  too  much  for  him.  He  did  not  care 
entirely  to  part  with  it,  so  he  resolved  to 
let  it  furnished.  A  tenant  was  found 
sooner  than  he  had  anticipated ;  the 
agreement  for  taking  it  off  his  hands  for 
twelve  months  was  signed,  and  Thomas 
Kage  had  come  in  to  disclose  the  news 
to  Mrs.  Garston. 

She  received  it  with  bitter  resent- 
ment. Had  he  been  a  boy,  she  would 
decidedly  have  shaken  him.  Leaning 
forward  on  her  sofa,  the  Indian  shawl  on 
her  shoulders,  the  bright  screen  of  many 
colors  behind  her,  a  glass  full  of  sweet 
spring  flowers  on  the  table  near,  she  sat 
rapping  her  stick  in  passion,  now  on  the 
hearth-rug,  now  on  the  fender,  and  glar- 
ing at  Thomas  Kage  in  the  opposite 
chair.  But  that  he  had  backed  it  just 
out  of  her  reach,  she  might  have  rapped 
on  him. 

"  I  can't  be  up  in  my  room  a  week  or 
two,  but  you  must  go  and  make  a  fool 
of  yourself,  and  sign  away  your  home !" 
she  repeated  for  the  tenth  time,  when 
his  arguments  and  excuses  had  been 
nearly  exhausted  by  reiteration.  "Not 
able  to  keep  it  up  !  Don't  talk  nonsense 
to  me,  Thomas  Kage.  What  am  I  good 
for,  that  you  could  not  come  to  me  for  a 
hundred  or  two  ?  I've  got  it  to  spare,  I 
suppose." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  very  generous," 
he  murmured.  "  But  indeed,  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton, I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing; 
I  would  rather  get  on  myself  than  be 
helped,  even  by  you." 

"  You'd  rather  be  a  pig-headed,  un- 
grateful, senseless  idiot,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Garston.  "  Not  ungrateful  ?  Don't 
tell  me  !  Nobody  but  an  underhanded 
man,  Thomas  Kage,  wrould  have  taken 
advantage  of  my  being  laid  by  to  act 
against  me." 

"  Indeed,  I  did  not  take  advantage  of 
that.  But  that  you  were  too  ill  to  see 
me,  I  should  have  told  you  of  my  project 
from  the  first." 

"  And  to  go  and  sijrn  the  deed  !     One 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


123 


would  think  the  world  was  coming  to  an 
end.  I  say  the  agreement  shall  be  can- 
celled." 

"  It  is  impossible,  Mrs.  Garston.  I 
am  veiy  sorry  you  are  vexed." 

"  A  pretty  thing  for  vie  to  be  pester- 
ed with  new  neighbors  at  my  time  of 
life  !  I  wish  your  dear  mother  could 
look  down  and  see  what  you  have  done, 
Thomas  Kage  ! " 

"  I  did  it  all  for  the  best,"  he  an- 
swered. "  Situated  as  I  am,  I  ought  not 
to  have  attempted  to  keep  on  the  house 
longer  than  the  twelvemonth  enjoined 
by  my  mother.  My  rooms  in  the  Tem- 
ple will  do  very  well  for  me,  and  I've 
had  a  bed  put  into  them.  As  to  the  new 
neighbors,  I  thought  of  you,  and  wras 
cautious  there.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rashburn 
are  elderly  people,  very  quiet ;  they  have 
but  four  elderly  servants,  and  no  family." 

Down  came  the  stick  ;  on  the  bars  of 
the  grate  this  time.  "Rashburn! 
Who's  Rashburn  ?  Those  iron  people 
at  Aberton  ?  " 

"  Distant  relatives  of  theirs.  It  was 
through  Mrs.  Dunn  I  heard  that  they 
wanted  a  house." 

"  It  would  become  Lydia  Dunn  better 
if  she  concerned  herself  more  with  her 
own  affairs,  instead  of  putting  her  fin- 
ger into  other  people's,"  was  the  irasci- 
ble interruption. 

"  And  she  heard  of  it  through  her 
brother-in-law,  Richard    Dunn.     He^" 

"  Stop !  Are  thej'-  friends  of  Dick- 
ey's  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  Mr.  Rashburn  is  in  a 
state  of  health  that*  requires  constant 
medical  supervision  ;  and  he  has  come 
to  town  to  be  under  the  best.  They 
have  taken  my  house  for  twelve  months." 

Mrs.  Garston  growled.  Nevertheless, 
if  an}Tthing,  under  the  circumstances, 
could  mollify  her  desperate  vexation,  it 
was  the  fact  that  the  new  tenant  in  pro- 
spective was  a  friend  of  Richard  Dunn's. 
•  For  Richard — or,  as  she  generally  called 
him,  Dickej' — was  a  favorite  of  hers. 

"  Who's  going  to  keep  Dorothy  ?  " 
fiercely  demanded  Mrs.  Garston.  "She's 
ill,  and  not  fit  for  service." 

"  Well,  of  course  I  shall  in  part.  She 
has  saved  a  little.  Dorothy's  wants  are 
so  very  few,  that  she  will  not  need  much. 
I  think  she  means  to  take  a  room  in 
some  rural  place  :  if  anything  will  re- 
store her,  it  is  quiet  and  country  air." 


"  Do  you  know  what  you'd  do,  Thom- 
as Kage  ?  You'd  give  away  your  head 
if  it  were  loose.  You  are  as  bad  as 
3'our  mother  was.  Lady  Kage  never 
thought  of  herself  in  all  her  life  ;  it  was 
other  people,  other  people,  other  people, 
always  with  her ;  and  it's  the  same  with 
you." 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  live  for  others 
than  myself." 

"  Of  course  you  would,  being  devoid 
of  brains." 

A  pause  ensued.  Thomas  Kage  want- 
ed to  get  away,  but  hardly  dared  to 
make  a  move.  The  old  lady  was  nod- 
ding her  head,  her  face  stern,  her  lips 
compressed. 

"Well,  I  never  thought  you'd  aban- 
don me  in  my  old  age,  Thomas,  and 
when  I've  been  right  at  death's  door  ! 
From  the  time  when  you  were  a  child  in 
petticoats  and  climbed  on  my  knee,  I've 
looked  upon  you  as  belonging  to  me 
a'most  as  much  as  to  your  mother.  If 
you  wanted  to  part  from  me,  why  didn't 
you  take  that  precious  dance  to  India?  " 

"  But  I  am  not  going  to  abandon  you, 
or  to  part  from  }-ou  ;  I  would  not  do  any- 
thing of  the  kind,"  he  returned,  sinceri- 
ty in  his  earnest  eyes.  "  I  will  come  up 
to  see  you  two  or  three  times  a-week." 

"  Two  or  three  times  a-week  !  "  resent- 
fully repeated  Mrs.  Garston.  "  You  used 
to  come  in  every  day  before  I  was  ill, 
sometimes  morning  and  evening  too." 

True.  She  had  been  exacting,  and  he 
kind  and  considerate.  Snappish  and 
domineering  though  she  was  with  him, 
he  knew  that  she  looked  and  longed  for 
his  presence  as  she  did  for  no  one's  else, 
and  that  his  visits  were  the  one  daily 
break  in  her  monotonous  life.  The  Tem- 
ple was  a  great  deal  farther  off  than  next 
door  ;  but  he  began  to  ask  himself  the 
question — could  he  get  up  to  her,  as  usu- 
al, daily  ?  It  almost  seemed,  her  steel- 
gray  eyes  looking  into  his,  that  she  di- 
vined his  thoughts. 

"  You  might  come  up  to  me  every 
evening  ! " 

"  I  will  try.  It  may  not  be  quite  ev- 
ery evening.  I  don't  suppose  business 
will  admit  of  that." 

"  Now  you  do  as  I  bid  you.  If  your 
mother's  gone,  I'm  here,  and  I  act  as  I 
please.  I  wonder  what  would  become  of 
your  poor  head  but  for  me  !  Consider- 
ing that  you  are  a  steady  Christian  man, 


1  24 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


Thomas  Kage,  I  never  met  with  one  so 
likely  to  lose  it.  I  don't  mean  you'd 
drift  into  folly,"  she  explained,  with  a 
sharp  knock  on  the  leg  of  the  sofa  ;  "  like 
Barby  Dawkes  and  the  bad  young  men 
of  the  present  day.  If  you  could  do  that, 
you  might  pay  me  a  call  in  your  fine 
tandem  when  the  wind  blew  this  way,  but 
you'd  never  get  pressed  to  come.  Hold 
your  tongue  till  I've  finished  !  I'm  old 
enough  to  be  your  grandmother.  I  dine 
at  six ;  you  know  it — well  and  good. 
Every  day  in  the  week,  from  Monday  till 
Saturday,  there'll  be  your  knife  and  fork 
laid  in  my  dining-room,  whether  you 
come  to  use  it  or  not.  And  on  Sundays 
of  course  you'll  spend  the  day  here.'' 

He  got  up,  and  took  her  hand,  his 
eyes  so  expressively  earnest  and  grateful 
that  they  seemed  to  have  tears  in  them. 
Not  for  the  promised  dinners,  but  for  the 
kindness.  No  man  living  could  have  a 
heart  more  sensitive  to  that  than  Thom- 
as Kage. 

Wishing  her  good-day,  he  went  out, 
and  bent  his  steps  towards  Paradise- 
square,  for  he  wanted  to  see  Mrs.  Dunn. 
His  way  to  it  lay  through  Paradise-ter- 
race ;  and,  as  he  was  passing  Mrs.  An- 
nesley's,  an  impulse  of  civility  prompted 
him  to  turn  in.  For,  in  truth,  he  could 
not  remember  how  long  it  was  since  he 
called  there.  Not  often  in  the  day-time, 
Sundays  excepted,  was  Mr.  Kage  away 
from  his  chambers  in  the  Temple. 

The  servant  ushered  him  into  the 
drawing-room  quietly.  Every  movement 
of  the  household  was  regulated  by  the 
example  of  its  cold  and  quie't  mistress. 
Thomas  Kage  surprised  Miss  Belle  in  a 
solitar3r  waltz.  The  pretty  }'ounggirl,  a 
very  fairy,  in  a  white-lace  evening  dress 
and  profusion  of  blue  ribbons,  was  whirl- 
ing round  the  room  to  a  gay  tune  from 
her  own  lips.  He  rather  marveled  at  her 
attire. 

"  Good  gracious !  I  thought  it  was 
mamma,  and  wondered  what  brought  her 
home  so  soon,"  exclaimed  the  young  lad}7, 
ceasing  her  dance  abruptly  to  welcome 
Thomas  Kage.  And  all  in  a  breath,  see- 
ing him  looking  at  her  gala  robes,  she 
began  volubly  to  explain.  A  party  was 
to  take  place  that  evening  at  the  fashion- 
able seminary,  MissGammerton's,  where 
the  jToung  lady  had  been  educated,  and 
she  was  invited  to  it. 

"  There  was  a  break-up  of  the  girls  be- 


fore Christmas  through  the  fever,  and  so 
to-night  is  to  be  prize-giving  night.  It 
will  be  a  grand  affair  ;  not  one  of  the 
stupid  sets-out  they  have  generally  in 
the  half-year,  when  gentlemen  are  not 
admitted.  I  don't  care  to  go  to  them," 
added  Miss  Belle  with  candor. 

"  You  have  dressed  early,  young  lady," 
remarked  Mr.  Kage. 

She  burst  into  a  merry  laugh.  "  For 
one  thing,  we  go  early  —  five  o'clock. 
The  prizes  and  the  tea  will  take  up  the 
time  till  seven,  the  concert  till  nine; 
and  if  we  began  dancing  later  than  that, 
Miss  Gammerton  would  go  into  a  fit, 
thinking  the  girls  could  do  no  lessons  af- 
terwards for  a  week  to  come.  But. it's 
not  that." 

"Not  what?"  asked  Thomas  Kage, 
looking  at  the  flitting  movements  of  the 
pretty  child,  who  continued  to  take  a 
waltzing  step  from  side  to  side  while  she 
talked. 

"  M}T  having  dressed  so  soon.  I  heard 
mamma  tell  Sarah  this  morning  that  she 
should  send  me  in  my  drab  silk,  which 
was  warm  ;  and  Sarah  answered,  "  Yes, 
that  would  be  best,  as  the  weather  was 
still  bleak."  Sarah's  nothing  but  a  regular 
old  maid,  you  know,  Mr.  Kage.  Will  I 
go  in  my  drab  !  I  thought.  So  as  soon 
as  their  backs  were  turned,  I  went  up 
and  put  on  this.  The%y've  gone  out  to  pay 
visits,  because  the  day's  fine.  I  told 
mamma  if  she  made  me  go  with  her,  I 
should  be  tired  to  death  when  night 
came ;  and  she  left  me  at  home.  Tra, 
la,  la,  la  !  " 

"  Your  mamma  may  insist  on  the  drab 
when  she  returns,"  said  Thomas  Kage, 
interrupting  the  gay-hearted  singing,  his 
own  eyes  bright  with  amusement. 

"  0,  will  she,  though  !  I  am  to  go 
round  in  the  brougham  that  brings  them 
home,  and  I  shall  have  my  opera-cloak  on 
by  that  time,  and  my  fan  and  bouquet  in 
my  hand,  and  be  ready.  She  will  groan 
at  first,  and  scold  and  grumble  ;  but  she 
never  makes  me  do  a  thing  I  hold  out 
about ;  she  can't,  you  know,  for  I  have  a 
will  of  my  own.  Whom  do  you  think 
Miss  Gammerton  has  invited  this  time  ?  " 
"  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell.  Not  me." 
"  Dickey  Dunn,"  continued  the  girl, 
her  whole  face  alive  with  mischief  and 
merriment.  "  Dickej^  knows  her  a  little, 
and  must  have  said  he'd  like  to  go. 
Won't  we  girls  make  sport  of  him  !  " 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


125 


"  Of  Mr.  Dunn  ?  " 

She  nodded.  "  Old  Dicke}'  is  my  lov- 
er, you  know.  That  is,  he'd  like  to  be. 
Fancy  an  old  ruan  of  eighty  making  up 
to  me  !  " 

Child  though  she  was  in  mind  and 
manners,  if  not  quite  so  in  years,  there 
was  something  in  the  light  mockery  that 
jarred  on  the  true  heart  of  Thomas 
Kage.  Few  men  could  bear  to  hear  sa- 
cred feelings  ridiculed  less  than  he. 

"  Mr.  Dunn  is  not  yet  forty,  Belle," 
he  said,  in  a  grave  tone.  "  I  know  noth- 
ing of  what  you  say  ;  it  may  or  may  not 
be;  but  I  don't  think  you  ought  to 
speak  of  him  in  this  way  to  anyone." 

"  I  hope  he'll  ask  me  to  waltz  ;  I  hope 
he  will !  I'll  make  him  whirl  round  and 
round  till  his  breath  goes.  Good  gra- 
cious, Mr.  Kage,  why  do  3Tou  look  so 
grave  ?     You  are  as  bad  as  Sarah." 

He  did  not  stay — in  fact,  had  not  the 
time ;  but  departed,  leaving  cards  for 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Annesley.  It  may  be  as 
well  to  mention  here  that  the  visit  of 
Sarah  Annesley  had  resulted  in  a  per- 
manent residence.  Mrs.  Annesley  had 
formally  proposed  it  to  her;  nay,  had 
bosought  her  to  remain  ;  offering  her  a 
happy  home,  free  of  every  cost,  in  return 
for  the  valuable  companionship  Sarah 
supplied  to  her  flighty  daughter.  And 
Sarah  Annesley  had  seen  well  to  accept 
■it,  and  strove  to  do  her  duty.  Which 
was  rather  difficult. 

At  the  door  of  Mrs.  Dunn's,  Thomas 
Kage  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a 
group  before  he  was  aware  of  it — callers 
like  himself.  The  blue-and-silver  livery 
of  the  attendant  servants,  the  arms  on 
the  carriage  before  the  door,  from  which 
the  callers  had  descended,  might  have 
shown  him  who  it  was,  but  that  he  was 
buried  in  a  reverie  and  noticed  nothing 
till  it  was  too  late.  A  brilliant  girl 
(she  looked  but  like  one),  attired  in  violet 
velvet  and  ermine,  with  a  dainty  white 
bonnet  just  touching  her  lovely  face,  had 
her  hand  held  out  to  him. 

"  Mrs.  Canterbury  !  "  he  exclaimed  as 
he  took  it,  emotion  changing  even  yet 
the  hue  of  his  tale-telling  countenance. 

Mrs.  Canterbury  it  was;  and  by  her 
side,  dressed  young  enough  and  gay 
enough  for  a  girl  in  her  teens,  stood 
Mrs.  Kage  ;  Mr.  Canterbury  in  attend- 
ance on  both  of  them.  Deprived  of  her 
anticipated  season  in  town  the  previous 


year,  Caroline  had  been  quite  determined 
not  to  be  so  this.  As  soon  as  Christmas 
was  turned,  she  bade  her  husband  see 
about  engaging  a  house  through  a  Lon- 
don agent ;  one  had  been  found ;  and 
this,  the  second  week  in  February,  had 
witnessed  their  arrival  in  town. 

Thomas  Kage  entered  Mrs.  Dunn's 
hall  with  them.  Had  he  seen  his  way 
clear  to  go  away  again,  he  had  certainly 
done  so  ;  but  Mr.  Canterbury  had  taken 
him  b}r  the  arm,  and  Caroline  was  talk- 
ing to  him.  Was  it  Thomas  Kage's 
fancy,  or  was  it  fact,  that  George  Can- 
terbury had  become  enfeebled  both  in 
mind  and  body  ? 

Mrs.  Dunn,  all  unconscious  of  the 
surprise  in  store  for  her,  was  sitting  with 
her  late  husband's  brother,  Richard 
Dunn,  who  had  called  in.  Thomas 
Kage  involuntarily  thought  of  Miss 
Belle  Annesley's  ridicule  as  his  eyes  fell 
on  the  iron-merchant.  Perhaps  that  is 
not  quite  the  proper  designation  to  give 
him,  but  his  business  had  entirely  to  do 
with  iron.  He  rented  two  floors  some- 
where in  the  City,  his  counting-house 
and  other  offices  faking  up  one,  himself 
dwelling  in  the  other.  Anyone  less 
likely  to  be  made  the  subject  of  ridicule 
than  Richard  Dunn  could  not  well  be 
conceived.  He  looked  his  full  age,  close 
on  forty — a  fine-made,  personable  man, 
with  intellectual  features  of  calm  good 
sense ;  his  dark  hair  was  tinged  with 
gray,  and  scanty  on  the  top  of  his  head. 

Mrs.  Dunn  stood  with  a  momentary 
astonished  stare,  as  if  she  hardly  recog- 
nized her  visitors.  Neglecting  the  two 
ladies,  she  walked  forward  and  kissed 
her  father,  and  then  turned  to  welcome 
them,  but  very  coldly.  The  grasp  of  the 
hand  she  gave  to  Thomas  Kage  was  far 
warmer  than  any  vouchsafed  to  either. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  in  London, 
papa." 

"  Eh,  child. — no  ?  We  came  up  to — 
where  is  it,  Caroline  ?  " 

"  Belgrave-square,"  interposed  Mrs. 
Kage,  settling  herself  on  a  sofa,  with  a 
cushion  at  her  back.  "  Dear  Mr.  Can- 
terbury has  taken  it  furnished  for  six 
months." 

It  was  not  so  much  Mrs.  Kage's  an- 
swer ;  there  was  nothing  in  that,  savo 
perhaps  that  it  was  a  little  impudent  to 
take  the  words  out  of  other  people's 
mouths  ;  it  was  the  tone  in  which  Mr. 


126 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    YvT  I  L  L 


Canterbury  spoke  that  caused  Lis  daugh- 
ter's heart  to  leap  with  an  unpleasant 
thrill.  "Was  his  mind  gone?'*'  She 
mentally  asked  herself  the  question  as 
she  looked  keenly  at  him.  No,  not  quite, 
3'et ;  hut  it  had  weakened  much  and  was 
gradually  going.  He  was  stooping,  too 
— he,  the  hitherto  upright,  slender,  ap- 
parently strong-framed  man. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  papa  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Dunn  abruptly  ;  "  j7ou  are 
very  much  changed." 

"  Changed  for  the  better,  dear  Mrs. 
Dunn,"  simpered  Mrs.  Kage,  who  seemed 
not  to  care  that  Mr.  Canterbury  should 
answer  his  daughter.  "  Quite  for  the 
better,  since  he  had  a  good  wife  to  take 
care  of  him." 

Mrs.  Dunn,  fairly  turning  her  back  on 
the  speaking  lady,  crossed  the  room,  and 
sat  down  by  her  father.  He  talked  to 
her  then  about  his  little  boy  and  the 
house  in  Belgrave-square,  which  was 
less  convenient  than  he  had  hoped  for; 
about  her  sisters  Olive  and  Millicent ; 
about  Austin  llufort  and  his  wife  ;  and, 
in  short,  on  any  topic  she  chose  to  intro- 
duce. But  through  all  his  conversation 
there  ran  a  kind  of  insane  look  and  tone, 
putting  Lydia  in  mind  of  a  child.  She 
gave  a  terrible  sigh,  made  up  of  anger 
and  pain,  and  wondered  if  it  would  have 
been  so  soon  thus  had  he  not  married. 

"  I  have  merely  come  to  town  to  see 
my  dear  daughter  settled  in  her  house," 
spoke  Mrs.  Kage,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
company  generally,  as  she  opened  her 
fan  of  ivory  and  gold.  "  With  my  poor 
weak  nerves,  a  London  season  might  be 
too  much  for  me ;  and  I  do  not  mean  to 
try  it.  In  a  week  or  two  I  return 
home." 

This  was  really  true.  But  perhaps 
Mrs.  Dunn,  with  her  experience  o£  the 
innate  encroaching  propensities  of  the 
honorable  lady,  might  have  been  excused 
for  doubting  it. 

"  A  season  in  town  is  ver)7  exhausting, 
ma'am,  for  those  who  enter  into  its 
gaieties,"  said  Mr.  Dunn  in  his  polite- 
ness, perceiving  that  no  one  else  answered 
Mrs.  Kage. 

Her  reply  to  this  was  to  put  up  her 
eye-glass  and  view  him  very  coolty. 

"  Not  that  I  speak  from  experience," 
added  Mr.  Dunn.  "  I  do  not  enter  into 
anything  of  the  kind  mj'self :  business 
men  have  no  time  for  it." 


Mrs.  Kage  dropped  her  glass  at  once. 
"  Business,  0  !  "  said  she. 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  down  to 
Jane's  wedding,  Lydia  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Canterbury  in  the  midst  of  a  sudden 
pause. 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  papa,  I 
do  not  care  to  go  to  Chilling,"  she  plain- 
ly answered.  "  There  have  been  so 
many  changes,  you  know :  I  couldn't 
witness  them  and  keep  my  temper. 
They  are  bad  enough  to  hear  of;  they 
would  be  worse  to  see." 

"  She  was  married  in  December. 
Olive  thought  jrou  would  come  and  stay 
the  Christmas." 

"  Ali,  j'es,  poor  Olive  !  I  spent  my 
Christmas  at  home,  papa." 

They  had  formed  into  couples,  as  it 
were — Lydia  with  her  father,  Thomas 
Kage  and  Mrs.  Canterbury.  The  dis- 
jointed ones  were  Mrs.  Kage  and  the 
iron-merchant,  who  were  on  opposite 
sofas. 

"  You  will  take  me  out  sometimes, 
will  you  not,  Thomas?"  Caroline 
pleadingly  asked.  "If  my  husband 
has  to  go  with  me  too  much,  and  be  up 
late,  I  think  he  may  break  down.  We 
have  secured  a  good  opera-box." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  decline,  Mrs. 
Canterbury,"  was  the  decidedly  damp- 
ing answer.  "  You  must  not  depend  on 
me.  I  have  no  time  to  give  to  gaiet}', 
and  therefore  keep  out  of  it  altogether. 
Work  and  dissipation  will  not  get  on 
side  by  side." 

"  At  least  j'ou  will  come  to  see  us  in 
Belgrave-square,"  was  all  she  rejoined 
in  her  mortification. 

"  Thank  you." 

"  You  have  not  been  again  to  Chilling, 
Thomas." 

"  No  ;  I  have  been  busy  this  winter." 

"I  am  going  to  be  presented  at  the 
first  Drawing-room,"  she  said  in  a 
minute,  with  gleeful  vanity.  "  I  wish 
you  could  go  too,  and  see  me  in  my 
court-dress  :  it  is  to  be  white  lace  and 
satin  and  diamonds." 

Thomas  Kage  smiled.  "Diamonds, 
eh  ?  " 

"  Beautiful  diamonds — the  most  mag- 
nificent set  you  ever  saw!  1  have 
brought  them  up  with  me  ;  they  were 
the  first  Mrs.  Canterbuiw's." 

"  And  were  given  by  her  on  her 
death-bed  to  my  sister  Olive,"  spoke  up 


G  E  ORGE    CANTERBURY'S    W  ILL. 


127 


Mrs.  Dunn  sharply. — "  You  were  pres- 
ent at  the  time,  papa." 

"  Dear  Thomas,  do  go  out  to  the  car- 
riage and  get  my  smelling-salts,"  shriek- 
ed out  Mrs.  Kage,  with  that  unpleasant 
tone  her  voice  took  when  annoyed. 
"  You'll  find  them  somewhere  amidst 
the  cushions." 

In  the  carriage,  on  the  nurse's  lap — 
Judith — sat  the  boy,  a  lively  little  fel- 
low, six  months  old  now,  with  his 
mother's  violet-blue  eyes.  Seizing  hold 
of  Thomas  Kage's  finger  as  babies  will 
do,  the  blue  ejTes  smiled  in  his  face. 

"  It's  you,  is  it,  sir  ?  Why,  you  have 
grown  into  a  man. — He  looks  well  and 
hearty,  nurse." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  he  is  as  healthy  a  little 
fellow  as  I'd  wish  to  nurse.  And  a 
sweet  temper  he  has  got,"  she  added 
fondly  ;  "  quite  his  father's,  it  is." 

Releasing  his  finger,  and  patting 
gently  the  little  face,  Thomas  Kage 
looked  for  the  bottle  of  salts — a  beauti- 
fully-cut crystal  with  a  gold  stopper. 
Sending  it  in  by  Mrs.  Dunn's  servant, 
he  walked  away. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


LOVE   AT 


LAST. 


If  Miss  Belle  Annesley  had  "brains 
for  any  one  thing  more  than  another, 
it  was  music  :  in  that  she  excelled,  and 
she  sang  sweetly.  To  see  her  at  her 
harp  was  a  charming  sight  ;  to  stand 
and  turn  over  the  music  for  her  at  the 
piano  while  she  sang,  was,  to  one  man 
at  least,  the  acme  of  human  bliss  ;  and 
that  man  was  Richard  Dunn.  Her 
boast  to  Thomas  Kage  had  not  been  an 
idle  one. 

"  There  is  no  passion  fools  us  like 
that  of  love."  It  has,  indeed,  been  well 
said  and  sung.  Here  was  this  middle- 
aged  sensible  man — one  of  the  most  re- 
spected in  the  higher  ranks  of  the  com- 
mercial world — burning  to  lay  himself 
and  his  wealth  at  the  feet  of  that  flighty 
child.  He  had  been  caught  by  the  win- 
ning ways,  the  laughing  eyes,  and  the 
blue  ribbons  of  this  fairy  girl ;  and  all 
the  arguments  of  all  the  sages  that  the 
world  ever  produced  could  not  have  con- 
vinced him  that  she  would  not  be  for 


him  a  suitable  wife.  Evening  after  eve- 
ning, when  the  occupations  of  the  day 
were  over,  found  him  at  Mrs.  Annesle3T's. 
There  he  would  sit  listening  to  her 
songs,  and  fancy  himself,  not  in  Para- 
dise-terrace, but  in  a  real  Paradise. 

She  detected  his  love ;  she  saw  the 
nature  of  his  attentions.  When  does  a 
woman,  and  a  vain  one,  no  matter  how 
young  she  may  be,  ever  mistake  such  ? 
And  though  Belle  Annesley  ridiculed 
him  and  his  hopes  behind  his  back — as 
she  had  done  to  Thomas  Kage — she  prac- 
tised all  sorts  of  little  arts  and  coquet- 
ries before  his  face,  which  she  knew 
were  enthralling  his  heart  the  closer. 
She  had  not  the  smallest  purpose  in  the 
world  in  doing  this,  except  her  love  of 
admiration  and  of  teasing. 

Mrs.  Annesley,  seeing  things  but 
dimly,  as  an  interested  looker-on  often 
does,  did  not  interfere  one  way  or  the 
other.  It  se,emed  next  to  impossible 
that  Richard  Dunn — the  grave,  staid 
City  man,  the  wealthy  iron-merchant — 
could  cast  a  serious  thought  to  her  friv- 
olous, light  daughter.  She  was  the 
very  essence  of  cold  proprietj" — as  was 
once  before  said — and  how  she  came  to 
have  so  giddy  a  child  was  a  marvel  to 
the  world.  A  vast  deal  more  giddy, 
Miss  Belle,  than  the  stern  woman  sus- 
pected. Had  she  known  of  the  flirting 
scrapes  Belle  sometimes  drifted  into,  she 
would  have  gone  crazy. 

There  was  not  any  harm  in  Belle 
Annesley,  and  she  by  no  means  deserv- 
ed the  epithet  that  has  come  into  use  of 
late — "  fast."  Wild  and  thoughtless  was 
she — a  careless,  flitting  butterfly,  who 
held  hearts  to  be  very  light  articles, 
and  had  not  as  yet  felt  her  own  touch- 
ed. With  it  all,  she  was  a  tender  little 
plant,  not  very  able  to  bear  rough  and 
rude  winds,  should  they  ever  assail  her. 

I  wish  there  was  time  to  tell  of  an 
acquaintance  she  fell  heedlessly  into 
with  a  handsome  foreign  gentleman  of 
magnificent  whiskers.  His  behavior 
was  good  ;  and  Belle,  through  a  mistake 
for  which  nobody  was  responsible,  un- 
derstood that  he  was  staying  with  a 
nobleman,  the  Duke  of  Derbyshire. 
"  Staying  with,"  in  Belle's  idea,  could 
mean  nothing  but  visiting.  When  the 
denouement  came,  it  was  discovered  that 
he  was  only  the  duke's  cook — a  ver}'  ca- 
pable man  in  his  profession,  and  by  no 


128 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


means  ill-born,  enjoying,  too,  a  very 
large  salary.  That  was  really  a  lesson 
to  Belle,  and  for  some  time  she  was  tol- 
erably  steady. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Dunn,  intending  to 
quit  the  City  and  come  westward,  took 
on  lease  one  of  the  better  houses  in 
Paradise-square,  and  was  busy  furnish- 
ing it.  One  day  Miss  Belle,  in  her 
saucy  way,  told  him  he  would  want  a 
wife  when  he  went  into  it. 

They  happened  to  be  alone.  Mr. 
Dunn  seized  on  the  occasion  and  said 
yes,  he  should  :  would  she  be  the  wife  ? 
Belle  affected  to  be  taken  with  the  most 
intense  surprise,  and  almost  as  good  as 
retorted  that  he  had  better  make  an 
offer  to  her  grandmother.  The  episode 
passed  off,  without  much  compromising 
of  himself  on  Mr.  Dunn's  part. 

A  listener  might  have  been  in  doubt 
whether  he  really  meant  to  put  the 
question,  or  had  intended  it  as  a  joke. 
And  somehow  with  that  moment  his 
eyes  opened  to  his  folly,  and  he  knew 
that  he  should  forever  thank  his  propi- 
tious stars  that  the  frivolous  girl,  in  her 
caprice,  had  been  wiser  than  he. 

But  it  does  not  fall  to  the  lot  of  all 
of  us  to  do  foolish  things  and  not  be 
talked  of.  How  it  got  about,  mischief 
only  knew  ;  but  rumors  of  Mr.  Dunn's 
forthcoming  marriage,  or  at  least  of  the 
offer,  went  spreading  abroad  :  whether 
whispered  by  the  girl  in  her  heedless- 
ness he  never  knew.  They  penetrated 
even  to  the  deaf  ears  of  Mrs.  Garston  ; 
who,  as  deaf  people  often  do,  took  up 
the  tale  a  tort  et  a  travers. 

"  So  we  shall  soon  have  to  congratu- 
late you  upon  giving  up  your  bachelor- 
ship," she  said  one  day  that  he  had  gone 
in  to  see  her. 

Mr.  Dunn  became  the  color  of  a  rose. 
Who  could  have  been  talking  to  her  of 
his  affairs  ? 

"  If  you  take  a  wife  at  all,  it's  time 
you  set  about  it,"  pursued  the  ancient 
lady,  "  for  you  are  hard  upon  forty,  my 
dear.  You  and  my  poor  son — who  lived 
but  a  day — were  bom  in  the  same  win- 
ter." 

"  How's  your  deafness,  ma'am  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Dunn.  "  It  was  very  bad 
when  I  was  last  here." 

"0,  that's  better,  Bichard.  I  don't 
make  mistakes  now.  She  is  a  good,  pru- 
dent, sensible  girl,  that  Miss  Annesley  ; 
one  in  a  thousand." 


"  Is  she  ?  "  thought  Mr.  Dunn. 
"Though  full  3Toung  for  you,  Dickey. 
That  gossiping  woman,  Mrs.  Williams, 
used  to  say  she  knew  you  were  up  to 
your  eyes  in  love  with  An — Anna — what's 
her  name  ? — Annabel.  I  asked  her  one 
day  if  she  did  not  give  Bichard  Dunn 
credit  for  more  sense  than  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  flighty  young  creature,  only  fit  for 
a  dancing-girl  at  Astley's.  But  you  have 
chosen  well,  my  dear,  and  have  shown 
your  sense." 

"What  are  you  talking  of?"  asked 
Mr.  Dunn. 

"Isn't  it  true,  then?"  returned  the 
old  lacby.  "  Are  you  not  going  to  be 
married  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it ! "  exclaimed  the  mer- 
chant wrathfully.  "  I'd  see  all  the  girls 
at— York,  first !  " 

"  The  tales  that  people  invent!  "  cried 
Mrs.  Garston,  heaving  up  her  hands  in 
wonder.  "  Somebody  came  here  the 
other  dajT,  and  said  you  had  made  an 
offer  to  Miss  Annesley,  and  were  furnish- 
ing your  new  house  in  splendor  for  the 
wedding." 

"  She's  too  young  and  flighty  for  me, 
ma'am,"  he  roared  in  her  ear.     "  Never 
you  fear  that  I  shall  marry  heT." 
"  What's  too  young  and  flighty  ?  " 
"  Miss  Belle  Annesley." 
"I  didn't  allude  to  her!"  screamed 
Mrs.  Garston,  rapping  her  stick  wildly 
on  the  floor  in  her  deafness  and   wrath. 
"  It's  her  cousin  Sarah  ;  old  Parson  An- 
nesley's    daughter.     I  hope    you    don't 
call    her    flighty  —  a    well-brought-up, 
sweet-tempered,  elegant  young  woman. 
You  might  be  proud  to  get  her,  Dickey." 
"  She  is  not  far  wrong,"  grumbled  the 
merchant  to  himself  when  he  went  away. 
"  I    have    sometimes    questioned,    even 
when  in  the  height  of  my  infatuation, 
whether  I  had  not  neglected  the  gold  to 
hug  the  gilding." 

The  spring  grew  older ;  but  there's 
nothing  much  to  tell  of  it.  Mrs.  Can- 
terbuty  was  the  gayest  of  the  gay  Lon- 
don world  ;  her  husband  tried  to  be,  but 
made  a  signal  failure  of  it.  The  poor 
drooping  old  man  (so  upright  not  long 
ago)  ought  to  be  at  home  at  the  Bock, 
people  said  ;  and  Mrs.  Garston  gave  the 
young  wife  one  of  her  sharp  reprimands 
on  the  score.  Thomas  Kage  called  on 
them  once  a  month  or  so  ;  and  that  was 
the  extent  of  the  intercourse  he  allowed 
himself  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Canterbury. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


129 


Caroline  took  refuge  in  a  fit  of  haughty 
resentment,  and  let  him  follow  his  own 
course.  Not  until  July  did  she  and  her 
husband  depart  for  the  Rock. 

Summer  passed  on,  and  Thomas  Kage 
came  home  from  circuit,  on  which  he  had 
gone.  His  coming  and  going  mattered 
little  to  any  body,  except,  perhaps,  Mrs. 
Garston,  for  he  confined  himself  mostly 
to  his  work  and  his  chambers.  Sarah 
Annesley  was  then  at  Chilling,  whither 
she  had  departed  on  a  long  visit. 

Which  left  Miss  Bell  comparatively 
free.  That  young  lady's  turn  was  to 
come,  however ;  and  she,  who  had 
laughed  at  others,  was  soon  to  have  her 
own  heart  touched  to  infatuation. 

For  so  fashionable  a  man  as  Captain 
Dawkes  to  appear  in  London  when  every- 
bodj^  that  he  would  have  deemed  of  con- 
sequence was  out  of  it,  argued  something 
under  the  surface.  For  more  than  two 
years  Captain  Dawkes  had  been  in  Ire- 
land with  his  regiment.  Hi  now  sud- 
denly reappeared  in  London.  On  leave, 
he  said. 

People  can  get  through  money  in  Ire- 
land, if  so  inclined,  just  as  fast  as  in 
England ;  and  Barnaby  Dawkes  had 
found  it  so,  to  his  cost.  The  gallant 
captain  had  come  to  the  very  end  of  his 
tether,  available  and  unavailable.  He 
pleaded  sickness  at  head-quarters,  and 
got  leave  to  absent  himself  from  duty ; 
his  real  business  being.not  sickness,  but 
to  move  every  propitiator}'  power  to  ena- 
ble him  to  raise  the  wind. 

The  chief  power — that  is,  the  chief 
hope,  Mrs.  Garston — was  not  propitious. 
Quite  the  contrary.  It  really  seemed  to 
Barnaby  Dawkes  that  the  old  lady  must 
be  gifted  with  a  kind  of  second  sight; 
so  accurately  did  she  divine  the  state  of 
affairs,  and  recount  it  to  his  face.  At 
first  Barnaby  thought  Keziah  must  have 
been  talking  ;  but  he  found  she  had  not. 
It  was  all  good  guess-work.  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton said  he  should  have  no  help  from 
her  ;  the  money-lenders  were  not  to  be 
seduced ;  and  Barnaby  Dawkes,  captain 
and  gentleman,  sat  down  and  seriousl}T 
asked  himself  what  there  remained  to 
do. 

It  might  have  been  pure  pastime — 
pour  faire  passer  le  temps  ;  or  in  his  love 
of  a  pretty  face — Belle's,  or  any  other  ; 
or  because  his  usual  expensive  life  was 
not  obtainable  under  the  present  adverse 


circumstances,  that  Captain  Dawkes 
took,  during  this  sojourn  in  London,  to 
go  a  good  deal  to  Mrs.  Annesley's.  Ke- 
ziah was  tolerably  intimate  there;  with 
her  brother  their  acquaintance  had  been 
but  very  slight.  A  sober  moderate 
household  such  as  that  was  not  one  like- 
ly to  attract  Captain  Dawkes.  During 
his  absence  in  Ireland,  the  frivolous 
child,  Belle,  had  grown  into  a  very  love- 
ly young  woman  —  if  indeed  the  term 
"woman"  can  be  applied  to  a  girl  not 
out  of  her  teens.  Captain  Barnaby 
Dawkes  was  agreeably  struck,  and  began 
to  talk  in  whispers  to  her  forthwith. 

How  do  people  fall  in  love  ?  What 
subtle  instiuct  is  there  that  induces  it  ? 
While  one  man,  good  and  honest  and 
worthy,  will  press  his  suit  in  vain — and, 
in  spite  of  all  reason,  a  woman  can  no 
more  persuade  her  heart  to  care  for  him 
than  for  the  idle  wind  —  another  will 
step  in  and  take  it  by  storm.  It  was  so 
with  Annabel  Annesley.  Ere  Barnaby 
Dawkes  had  called  at  the  house  three 
times,  her  cheeks  would  glow,  her  whole 
pulses  thrill  at  his  approach.  He  was  a 
handsome  man,  as  Miss  Belle  counted 
handsomeness  ;  but  this  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  enthralment,  for  she  knew 
that  if  he  had  been  as  ugly  as  a  satyr 
her  love  would  be  just  the  same.  With 
her  whole  heart  and  life  she  had  learnt 
to  love  Barnaby  Dawkes. 

How  it  changed  her  !  Her  very  na- 
ture seemed  to  have  been  replaced  by 
one  essentially  different.  The  thought- 
less butterfly,  ready  ever  to  sip  sweets 
from  all  the  world,  whose  pleasure 
seemed  to  have  lain  in  meeting  attrac- 
tive men  and  laughing  with  and  at 
them,  became  as  sedate  as  a  judge. 
When  Mrs.  Annesle}'  came  home  from 
Chilling,  at  the  end  of  October,  she 
wondered  what  had  come  to  the  child — 
all  her  lightness  was  gone.  Gone,  to  be 
superseded  by  a  tender,  subdued  joyous- 
ness,  shining  ever  from  the  now  shy 
eyes.  Belle  did  not  care  to  go  out  now, 
she  stayed  at  home  and  sang  her  songs 
— love-songs  always — in  a  tender,  half 
hushed  tone,  or  worked  slippers  or  other 
trumpery,  and  was  as  good  as  gold  ;  ever 
seeming  to  be  listening  for  the  step  of 
visitors.  Belle  Annesley  had  made  her 
life's  choice,  for  weal  or  for  woe. 

It  might  be  that  Captain  Dawkes  was 
a  little  touched  also  ;  that  what  had  beeu 


130 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


begun  from  the  lightest  of  all  motives 
was  continued  because  he  had  grown  to 
like  the  pastime.  At  any  rate  he  perse- 
vered in  it.  A  tall,  big,  fine  man  he, 
with  glossy,  fierce,  dark  whiskers,  that 
might  set  the  world  a-longing  and  a  bar- 
ber off  in  ecstasies;  and  she  the  sweet- 
est little  blue-eyed  fairy  to  be  found  in 
London.  If  contrasts  attract,  as  wise 
ones  say,  then  the  episode  in  these  two 
lives  need  not  be  wondered  at. 

In  an  unfashionable  part  of  Pimlico, 
in  a  quiet  street  through  which  nothing 
more  aristocratic  bowled  than  an  occa- 
sional cab  or  baker's  cart,  lived  Miss 
Dawkes.  Sbe  occupied  the  drawing- 
room  floor,  and  had  so  done  for  some 
years  now.  When  Barnaby  was  in  Lon- 
don she  moved  to  a  small  room  at  the 
top  of  the  house,  and  slept  amidst  her 
boxes,  leaving  the  better  chamber  behind 
the  sitting-room  for  him,  if  he  choose  to 
come  home  to  it.  He  gave  his  address 
at  his  club  :  never  here.  The  sitting- 
room  was  of  very  moderate  size,  with 
drab  curtains  to  the  widows,  and  a 
drab-and-green  table-cover,  both  some- 
what the  worse  for  wear.  Miss  Dawkes's 
income  amounted  to  just  one  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  a -year  ;  so  she  had  to  be 
content  with  small  lodgings. 

It  was  a  gloomy  evening  in  November, 
seven  o'clock  striking  by  the  London 
churches.  Miss  Dawkes  had  dined  at 
one  o'clock  off  beefsteak-pie  ;  the  re- 
mainder of  the  pie — a  small  one — had  just 
been  put  upon  the  table  for  supper,  with 
bread  and  cheese.  Keziah  liked  good  liv- 
ing, and  would  very  much  have  preferred 
to  dine  luxuriously  at  six  ;  but  fate  and 
fortune  were  adverse.  She  was  subject  to 
frightful  headaches,  and  never  dared  take 
her  supper  much  later  than  seven.  The 
fire  burnt  clear,  the  lamp  was  bi-ight  and 
well  turned  on,  for  Barnaby  might  arrive 
at  any  moment,  though  she  did  not  par- 
ticularly expect  him. 

A  rush  of  wind  and  rain  in  at  the 
street-door  below  as  it  opened,  and  Cap- 
tain Dawkes  came  up,  his  coat  and  um- 
brella dripping.  Keziah  took  both  from 
him.  and  wentjwhere  she  could  leave  them 
to  dry. 

"  Cursed  weather."  remarked  the 
Captain  when  she  returned.  "  It's  rain- 
ing like  cats  and  dogs." 

"  Whose  umbrella  is  that, Barnaby  ?" 
she  asked. 


"  Whose  ?     Why,  mine." 

"  Indeed,  it  is  not.  This  is  like  yours 
in  general  appearance,  but  it  is  a  little 
smaller,  and  has  '  S.  A. '  engraved  on 
the  handle." 

A  pause  of  consideration.  Captain 
Dawkes,  tailing  up  the  whole  of  the  fire, 
and  gently  touching  his  luxuriant  whis- 
kers, was  admiring  his  face  in  the  very 
small  pier-glass. 

"  I've  left  mine  at  the  Annesley,<', 
then,  and  brought  one  of  theirs  away  by- 
mistake.  '  S.  A.'  ?  That  must  stand 
for  the  parson's  daughter.  She  is  going 
to  be  married  to  Richard  Dunn." 

"  What,  Sarah  Annesley  !  Well,  I 
thought  it  was  coming  to  it,"  slowly  add- 
ed Miss  Dawkes.  "  He  has  grown  to 
like  her,  I  suppose ;  and  she,  as  anyone 
may  see,  likes  him.  How  do  you  know 
it  ?  " 

"  Belle  whispered  it  to  me." 

"  It  will  be  a  very  suitable  match  ; 
but  he  was  in  love  with  little  Belle 
once." 

"  Like  his  impudence,"  remarked  Cap- 
tain Dawkes.     "I  wish  I  had  his  money." 

"  Will  you  take  some  supper,  Bar- 
naby ?  " 

The  captain  turned  to  survey  the  table. 
"  D'ye  call  that  supper  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  best  we  have  to-night. 
They  told  me  downstairs  they  could  not 
cook  anything,  or  I  would  have  ordered 
you  a  cutlet.  The  parlor-floor  has  got  a 
party." 

"  I  wonder  you  stop  in  these  lodgings, 
Keziah." 

"  If  I  moved  elsewhere,  I  should  be  no 
better  off;  perhaps  worse.  And  I  am 
used  to  them  ;  I  don't  care  to  go." 

"  You  want  the  energy  to  move,  Ke- 
ziah." 

"  Not  the  energy,  Barby  dear' — the 
money." 

"  Captain  Dawkes  growled  at  Fate. 
"  I  wish  the  devil  had  all  the  money, 
Keziah  !  There'd  be  no  bother  then  : 
should  all  be  in  the  same  box." 

She  was  serving  the  pie,  and  putting 
the  choicest  morsels  on  his  plate,  with 
every  drain  of  gravy  the  spoon  would 
take  up.  On  her  own  plate  she  put  the  " 
hard  ends  of  crust,  the  dry  meat,  the 
odd  bits  of  fat.  Barnaby  Dawkes 
watched  all  this  but  never  an  objection 
made  he ;  and  he  sat  down  and  began 
upon  his  supper  without  so  much  as  a 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


131 


word  of  thanks.  He  had  been  living 
upon  his  sister  entirely  for  two  months 
now.  It  seemed  his  province  to  take 
all  the  good  things  of  life  that  came  in 
his  way,  though  she  had  to  starve  upon 
the  worst.  Keziah  had  spoilt  and  pam- 
pered him. 

."  You  are  hungry,  Barby." 

"  Well  I  may  be  !  I  have  had  no  din- 
ner. Stone  asked  me  to  dine,  but  I  found 
I  should  meet  somebody  I'd  rather  not 
meet  just  now." 

"  Have  you  seen  Aunt  Garston  to- 
day ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  she  threw  her  stick  at 
me." 

"  0  Barby  !  I  suppose  you  put  her 
out." 

Captain  Dawkes  scraped  up  the  scraps 
on  his  plate,  for  he  was  really  hungry. 
Keziah  resented  the  company  on  the  par- 
lor-floor, and  wished  she  could  have 
cooked  him  the  missing  cutlet. 

"  You  should  have  had  something  bet- 
ter had  I  thought  you  would  come  home 
to  dinner,  Barby." 

"  I  should  order  pigeon-pies,  Keziah  ; 
or  chicken.  Beefsteak-pies  are  common 
kind  of  things." 

Keziah  inwardly  wished  she  could. 
She  began  mentally  to  ask  herself  when 
this  state  of  affairs  would  end.  Not  for 
her  own  sake,  or  for  the  expense  and  con- 
trivance it  cost  her,  but  for  Barnaby's. 

"  I  do  my  best,  Barnaby.  Oftentimes 
I  wonder  that,  with  my  small  income,  the 
best  is  so  good  as  it  is." 

Captain  Dawkes,  considering  his  sister 
as  nobody,  had  turned  his  back  on  the 
table  and  sat  hiding  the  fire,  bending 
over  it  and  twirling  his  moustache, 

"  I  suppose  it  will  have  to  come  to  sell- 
ing-out, Keziah." 

"  And  if  it  does  ?  You  £ould  not  keep 
the  money,  and  would  be  worse  off  than 
you  are  now.  With  the  proceeds  of  the 
commission  gone,  you  would  simply  be  a 
beggar:" 

Yes.  And  it  was  a  very  gloomy  look- 
out. Captain  Dawkes  saw  that  as  well 
as  anybody.  No  man  liked  to  stand  bet- 
ter with  the  world  than  he.  As  to  living 
the  semi-hiding,  make-shift  life  with  Ke- 
ziah— as  he  one  day  politely  told  her — 
he  would  rather  hang  himself. 

"  And  after  the  selling-out,  the  next 
thing  will  be  to  sell  myself,"  continued 
the  Captain  gloomily. 


"Sell  yourself!" 

"  To  a  woman.  There  will  be  noth- 
ing less  left  for  it,  Keziah.  I  suppose 
you'd  not  like  to  see  me  with  a  Mrs. 
Dawkes  ;  but  it  will  have  to  come  to  it." 

A  keen  pain  shot  through  Keziah's 
heart.  How  keen,  let  those  tell  who 
have  experienced  the  same. 

"  She  will  have  eight  or  nine  hundred 
a-year  when  the  old  mother  drops  off, 
which  I  think  won't  be  long  first.  That 
will  be  better  than  a  prison." 

Keziah  tried  to  swallow  the  piece  of 
cheese  she  was  eating,  but  her  throat 
seemed  to  close  to  it.  Instinct  more 
than  reason,  Barnaby's  visits  most  of 
all,  guided  her  to  a  right  guess. 

"Are  you  speaking  of  Belle  Annes- 
ley?" 

"  Right  you  are." 

"  She  will  have  but  three  hundred 
a-year,  Barnaby.  Her  half-brother  out 
in  the  torrid  zone,  Walter  Annesley, 
takes  the  larger  portion  of  it." 

"  Bight  in  theory,  Keziah,  wrong  in 
fact.  Walter  Annesley  is  dying,  and 
Belle  will  take  the  whole.  The  last 
West-India  mail  brought  news  of  some 
slight  accident  he  had  met  with  ;  the  one 
in  to-day  says  it  has  turned  out  serious, 
and  that  there's  not  a  chance  of  his  life. 
As  thing  have  come  to  the  present  low 
ebb  with  me,  it  may  be  worth  while  to 
think  of  her." 

"  Do  you  care  for  her  very  much  ?  " 

"  She's  a  nice  little  thing." 

Another  lump  to  swallow. 

"  Enough  to  take  her  with  only  tho 
three  hundred  ?  " 

*'  Certainly  not.  I'd  see  her  some- 
where first.  Unless  I  had  money  my- 
self, I'd  not  wed  a  girl  with  only  that 
sum  if  she  were  a  royal  princess." 

"  Then,  Barnaby,  wait  until  Walter 
Annesley  shall  really  be  dead  before  you 
commit  yourself." 

"  I  never  intended  to  do  otherwise. 
You  can't  teach  me,  Keziah.  What  do 
you  say  ? — money  go  to  Walter  Annes- 
ley's  children  ?  No  ;  it  comes  to  Belle 
if  he  dies  in  his  mother's  lifetime.  A 
fellow  went  in  and  saw  the  will  for  me 
at  Doctors'  Commons." 

Keziah  might  be  pardoned  if  a  doubt 
crossed  her. 

"  That  would  be  a  rather  unusual  will, 
would  it  not,  Barby  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"     indifferently     answered 


132 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


Barby.  "  Curious  to  say,  there's  no 
provision  made  for  the  fellow's  marry- 
ing ;  contingency  doesn't  seem  to  have 
occurred  to  the  old  father.  If  Walter 
survives  his  stepmother,  the  share  goes 
to  him  ;  if  he  dies  in  his  mother's  life- 
time, all  goes  to  Belle.  Shall  wait  and 
see  how  things  turn.  If  certificate  of 
funeral  comes  over,  may  go  in  for  her 
then  ;  don't  know  yet." 

In  Keziah  Dawkes's  heart  of  hearts 
she  thought  her  brother  would,  from  his 
two  special  propensities,  love  of  roving 
and  love  of  spending,  be  an  unfit  man 
to  marry,  unless  the  acquired  fortune 
were  commensurate  with  the  sacrifice. 

"  Eight  hundred  a-year  for  you  would 
be  nothing,  Barnaby.  It  might  about 
keep  you  in  gloves  and  cigars." 

"  Seems  to  be  standing  just  now  be- 
tween me  and  that  delectable  place  the 
work -house,"  responded  the  Captain. 
"  Shall  make  up  my  mind,  one  way  or 
the  other,  when  next  West-India  mail 
comes  in." 

"  And  that  majT  bring  different  news," 
said  Keziah  dreamiby.  "  And  the  girl 
might  not  have  you,  after  all." 

"  Can  make  tolerably  sure  of  that  be- 
forehand," returned  the  gallant  Captain, 
a  complacent  smile  on  his  satisfied  face. 
"  I  wish  old  mother  Garston  was  dead 
and  buried,  and  I  had  got  her  money." 

"She  says  she  has  made  her  will,  and 
left  all  away  from  you,  Barby." 

"  Don't  believe  her,  though." 

"  0  Barby !  She  says  awfully  hard 
things,  but  they  are  nearly  always  true. 
At  the  best,  things  in  regard  to  her  are 
at  an  uncertainty." 

"  Yes  ;  the  uncertainty  is  the  devil  of 
it,"  retorted  Captain  Dawkes. 

Keziah  rang  for  the  tray  to  be  taken 
away.  While  this  was  being  done,  he 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
The  heavj*  rain  had  been  but  a  storm  ; 
the  streets  were  drying  again.  Captain 
Dawkes  called  for  his  coat  and  the  wet 
umbrella,  and  went  out. 

Keziah  sat  on  alone.  Books  and  a 
newspaper  lay  on  the  table,  but  she  took 
up  neither.  The  world  that  night 
teemed  to  be  steeped  in  a  vista  of  gloom, 
the  future  to  have  an  ominous,  undefin- 
ed shadow  spread  before  it.  In  former 
days  she  had  been  blindly  tolerant  of 
her  brother's  faults ;  but  his  exceeding 
recklessness  in  getting  into  debt,  his  ut- 


ter improvidence,  were  very  plain  to  her 
now.  She' took  his  part  against  Mrs. 
Garston  and  all  else,  but  she  could  not 
help  seeing  that  the  stern  old  lady  had 
good  reason  for  her  sternness.  "  If  I 
set  him  free,  he  will  begin  at  once  and 
run  up  a  fresh  ladder'  of  debts,  and 
where  is  it  to  end  ?  "  Mrs.  Garston  had 
impressively  asked.  The  very  words 
came  into  Keziah's  mind  now  as  she 
sat ;  and  all  the  answer  she  could,  give 
was,  "  I  don't  know  where." 

No,  Keziah  did  not.  And  she  might 
thank  Heaven  that  the  fore-knowledge 
was  spared  her. 

The  returning  of  the  umbrella  and 
getting  his  own,  afforded  an  excuse  for 
paying  a  night-visit  at  Mrs.  Annesley's. 
Belle  happened  to  be  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room when  he  entered.  She  was 
seated  on  a  footstool  at  a  corner  of' the 
hearth,  a  book  lying  listless  on  her  lap, 
and  her  favorite  blue  ribbons  falling 
from  her  golden  hair.  Up  she  started, 
her  whole  frame  in  a  joyous  tremor,  her 
cheeks  damask,  her  heart  wild.  Bufin 
manner  she  stood  quiet  as  a  lamb. 
Nevertheless  the  experienced  Captain 
saw  the  signs ;  his  great  dark  eyes  bent 
on  her  their  most  fascinating  light. 

"  Alone  !  "  he  whispered,  making  a 
prisoner  of  her  hands. 

She  hardly  knew  what  she  answered 
him.  In  the  tumult  that  his  presence 
induced,  words  fell  from  her  mechanical- 
ly. Mamma  had  stayed  in  the  dining- 
room,  finishing  a  letter  to  Walter ;  Sa- 
rah had  stepped  in  to  see  Mrs.  Lowther. 

"  My  pretty  one  ! "  exclaimed  the  Cap- 
tain, who  was  an  adept  in  charming 
phrases. 

"  I — we — did  not  expect  to  see  you 
again  this  evening,"  said  poor,  flutter- 
ing, corrised  Belle. 

"  I  w  juld  never  be  away  from  you  if 
I  could  help  it,"  said  the  great  story-tel- 
ler. And  the  words  were  sweeter  to  her 
ear  than  the  sweetest  honey. 

'■  But  I  fancy  sometimes  your  mother 
does  not  care  to  see  me  here  too  often," 
he  added,  never  having  released  the 
hands;  "yet  I  have  an  excuse  for  her 
to-night.  What  will  you  do  without 
me,  Belle,  when  I  go  back  to  Ireland?" 

A  pang  shot  through  her  heart. 
When  that  should  happen,  all  the  sun- 
shine would  go  out  of  her  young  life. 
Her  cheek  paled  a  little  ;  the  blue  eyes, 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


133 


lifted  momentarily  to  his,  had  wet  eye- 
lashes. Captain  Dawkes  suddenly  clasp- 
ed her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  face  with 
what  seemed  to  Belle  heaven's  own 
kisses. 

"  My  darling  !  " 

But  the  approaching  step  of  Mrs.  An- 
nesley  was  heard.  The  Captain  took 
his  seat  decorously  on  a  remote  chair ; 
and  Belle  hid  her  eyes  and  her  blushing 
face,  feeling  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream 
of  some  sweet  enchantment. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE    FUNERAL. 


"Well,  if  he  ain't  a  grand  sight! 
Why,  his  head's  a-stretching  all  down 
past  here,  and  his  tail's  not  out  o'  the 
lodge-gates  yet ! " 

The  speaker  was  a  country-woman, 
peeping  from  the  partialty-opened  door 
of  one  of  a  row  of  cottages.  The  doors 
of  all  were  similarly  being  peeped 
through,  though  the  shutters  to  the 
windows  were  closed  ;  and  the  women 
and  children  who  were  thus  gazing  ex- 
hibited signs  of  having  quitted  their 
household  occupations  to  look  at  the 
passing  sight. 

The  intelligent  reader  may  imagine, 
by  the  woman's  remark,  that  some  inde- 
scribable animal  of  fabulous  length  was 
looming  by.  But  it  was  nothing  of  the 
sort :  for  the  "  head  "  was  represented  by 
two  solemn  mutes,  gorgeously  apparelled 
in  the  blackest  of  black,  and  the  "  tail" 
by  a  couple  of  undertaker's  men, 
equally  orthodox  to  look  at.  The  mid- 
dle comprised  all  the  paraphernalia  of  a 
most  extravagant  funeral  —  coaches, 
horses,  plumes,  velvets,  fringe,  batons, 
attendants,  carriers,  mourners,  ribbons, 
crape,  white  handkerchiefs,  and  pomp 
and  vanity. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  cost,  now  !  "  con- 
tinued the  woman,  in  the  vernacular  of 
the  locality,  which  did  not  pay  particu- 
lar regard  to  genders.  "  He'll  be  a 
sight  to  remember,  he  will;  and  to  tell 
our  children  on,  when  we  grows  old." 

"  Ah,  she  have  done  the  thing  hand- 
some, she  have  ;  she  haven't  spared  no 
money,"  replied  the  matron  at  the  con- 
tiguous door,  to  whom  the  observation 
had  been  made. 


"  No  more  she  oughtn't  to  spare  it," 
retorted  the  first,  in  an  indignant  tone. 
"  Ain't  it  the  last  money  he'll  cost 
her?" 

"  Except  the  moniment  over  his 
grave  in  the  church.  They'll  put  him 
up  a  brave  one,  from  the  flag-stones  to 
the  roof.  But,  I  say,  what  was  up,  that 
it  were  put  off  from  yesterday  till  to- 
daj  ?  The  bur'al  were  fixed  for  yester- 
day." 

"  Some  relation  of  young  madam's, 
that  had  to  come  from  Lunnon  for  it, 
and  he  didn't  get  here." 

The  speaker  turned  her  head,  and  saw 
for  the  first  time  that  a  stranger  was 
standing  at  her  elbow.  A  tall,  dark, 
gentlemanly -looking  man,  who  had 
been  sauntering  listlessly  up  the  road, 
and  halted  to  gaze  at  the  passing  pro- 
cession. 

"  Whose  funeral  is  that  ?  "  he  in- 
quired of  the  woman. 

"  Mr.  Canterbury's,  sir,"  she  replied, 
dropping  a  curtsey.  "  Mr.  Canterbury's 
of  the  Bock." 

"  A  magnificent  funeral.  He  must 
have  been  a  man  of  some  note." 

"The  richest  gentleman  for  miles 
round,  sir,"  answered  the  other  woman, 
whose  tongue  was  the  readiest.  "  He 
were  our  landlord." 

"  Ah,"  returned  the  stranger,  glanc- 
ing down  the  row  of  cottages,  "  that  ex- 
plains why  you  are  all  shut  up." 

"  There's  not  a  house  on  the  estate, 
sir,  poor  or  rich,  but  what's  shut  close 
to-day.  He  has  been  took  off  sudden, 
like,  at  last ;  and  not  to  say  an  old  man 
neither.  But  he  has  been  ailing  and 
ailing  ever  so  long  !  " 

"  Does  he  leave  a  family  ?  " 
"A  young  wife  and  child.  He  mar- 
ried her  three  summers  agone.  His 
own  daughters  were  older  nor  she. 
Good  ladies  they  be,  and — There,  sir, 
look,  look  !  In  that  shiny  black  coach- 
and-four,  what's  a  passing  now,  there's 
a  gentleman  a-sitting  forrard ;  you  can 
see  him  well." 

"  What  of  him  ?  "  inquired  the  listen- 
er, wondering  at  the  sudden  abruptness 
of  the  gossiping  woman. 

"  It's  Mr.  Rufort.  sir,  Lord  Rufort's 
son  ;  and  he  married  one  of  the  young 
ladies,  Miss  Jane.  He  is  our  rector, 
but  another  gentleman  is  to  bury  Mr. 
Canterbury,  and  Mr.  Rufort  goes  as  a 
mourner.     There !    in  that    next    shiny 


134 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


coach,  that  old  gentleman  with  gray 
hair,  a-sitting  bolt  upright,  that's  Lord 
Rufort.  It's  just  the  way  he  sits  his 
horse,  and  never  bends  his  head  one 
way  nor  t'other.  The  young  ladies 
have  not  been  friendty  at  the  Rock  of 
late,  but  they  have  went  up  since  their 
father  was  took  worse ;  all  but  Mrs. 
Rufort,  and  she's  ill,  and  couldn't  leave 
the  rectory." 

But  that  the  gentleman,  listening  to 
all  this,  was  very  much  pre-occupied 
with  his  own  affairs,  not  very  satisfac- 
tory at  the  present  moment,  and  accord- 
ed but  half  an  ear  and  no  real  attention, 
he  might  have  recognised  the  deceased 
as  one  whom  he  knew  at  least  by  name. 
But  it  was  a  positive  fact  that  he  did 
not. 

'•What  is  this  village  called?"  he 
asked. 

"  Chilling,  sir." 

"Chilling,  eh!  And  a  chilling  kind 
of  place  it  seems  to  be,"  he  mentally 
concluded,  as  he  went  strolling  on  his 
road  again. 

The  funeral  procession  moved  on  to  a 
distant  church,  to  the  Canterbury  vault ; 
and  in  an  hour's  course  the  living  por- 
tion of  it  moved  back  again.  A  very 
few  of  the  followers  entered  the  Rock ; 
the  greater  number  stepped  into  their 
private  carriages,  and  were  driven  to 
their  respective  homes.  Lord  Rufort, 
when  requested  to  go  in,  started  off  to 
his  chariot  with  his  iron-gray  head  in 
the  air,  as  if  there  were  something  in- 
doors that  displeased  him.  Mr.  Carlton, 
of  the  Hall,  went  in  ;  Mr.  Rufort,  Mr. 
Norris,  and  Thomas  Kage.  The  women, 
as  we  heard,  said  the  ceremony  had 
been  put  off  for  a  day ;  it  was  on  ac- 
count of  Thomas  Kage.  When  sum- 
moned to  attend  the  funeral,  he  had 
pleaded  inability  to  absent  himself  from 
London,  and  then  there  went  up  a  more 
peremptory  request,  urging  his  attend- 
ance. 

The  family  were  assembled  in  the 
library.  Mrs.  Canterbury  young  and 
lovely,  in  her  heavy  black  robes  and  a 
dandified  apology  for  a  widow's  cap,  sat 
with  her  boy  on  her  knee  ;  Mrs.  Kage, 
a  mass  of  jet,  with  a  new  spreading 
black  fan,  was  on  a  sofa  near ;  on  the 
other  side  were  the  two  Miss  Canter- 
burys.  Mrs.  Rufort  was  unable  to  quit 
.iiome  :    Mrs.  Dunn  was    somewhere  in 


Germany.  Thomas  Kage  shook  hands 
with  Mrs.  Canterbury  in  silence,  and 
simply  bowed  to  the  rest.  He  had  ar- 
rived onl}T  an  hour  before  the  one  fixed 
for  the  funeral. 

The  weighty  business  for  which  they 
were  assembled  was  that  of  hearing  the 
will  read.  Perhaps  no  one  present,  save 
the  solicitor  who  had  drawn  it  up,  knew 
what  its  provisions  would  really  turn 
out  to  be. 

Mr.  Norris  proceeded  to  read  it;  and 
the  listeners  found  that  rumor,  for  once 
in  a  wajr,  had  been  correct.  The  unjust 
testament,  formerly  so  much  talked 
about,  had  never  been  altered.  Almost 
all  the  property  was  bequeathed  to  the 
new  wife  and  child  ;  Mrs.  Kage  inherit- 
ed ten  thousand  pounds,  the  four  daugh- 
ters of  the  deceased  five  thousand  each. 

"  '  And  I  appoint  Thomas  Charles 
Carr  Kage  the  trustee  for  my  son 
Thomas  until  he  shall  attain  his  major- 
ity, and  I  appoint  him  also  sole  execu- 
tor.' " 

The  above  sentence  (legally  confirm- 
ed in  other  portions  of  the  will),  when 
read  out  with  emphasis  by  Mr.  Norris, 
was  heard  with  surprise  by  several  in 
the  room,  and  with  the  most  intense 
surprise  by  Thomas  Kage  himself.  His 
thin  face  flushed,  and  the  thought  that 
crossed  him  was,  "I  shall  refuse  to  act." 

"Would  anyone  wish  to  look  at  the 
will  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Norris  breaking 
the  silence  that  fell  upon  the  room. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Kage,  in  her  simpering,  affected  voice, 
as  she  fanned  herself  with  the  great 
black  fan,  and  sprinkled  some  essence 
on  the  floor.  "  You  can  put  it  up,  Mr. 
Norris." 

Perhaps  the  lawyer  deemed  that  the 
Honorable  Mrs.  Kage  did  not  repre- 
sent the  interests  of  the  whole  company, 
for  he  held  it  out,  and  glanced  at  Mr. 
Rufort.  But  Mr.  Rufort  gave  a  bow 
of  denial. 

"  There  is  no  more  to  be  seen  than 
you  have  read,  ISTorris,  and  our  seeing  it 
would  not  alter  it,"  observed  the  plain- 
speaking  Mr.  Carlton.  "  My  dears,"  he 
added,  walking  up  to  the  Miss  Canter- 
burys,  "  is  it  your  wish  to  look  at  it  ?  " 

"  To  what  end  ?  —  as  you  observe," 
replied  Miss  Canterbury.     "  No." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  interrupted 
Thomas  Kage,  apparently  intending  the 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


w 


apology  to  be  general,  but  speaking  to 
Mr.  Norris.  "  How  is  it  that  I  am  ap- 
pointed trustee  and  executor  ?  " 

"  I  obeyed  Mr.  Canterbury's  direc- 
tions, sir ;  I  know  no  more,"  was  the 
answer.  And  Thomas  Kage,  who 
would  have  liked  to  say  two  or  three 
things,  thought  better  of  it,  and  com- 
pressed his  lips  to  silence. 

Mr.  Rufort  rose  to  leave.  Mrs. 
Kage,  who  seemed  to  be  assuming  a 
good  deal  of  authority,  and  to  cloak  it 
under  a  more  than  customary  display  of 
inertness,  stretched  out  her  fau  and 
tapped  him. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Rufort,  you  are  not 
going !  We  expect  you  to  remain. 
There's  a  cold  collation  laid  in  the  din- 
ing-room." 

"  Thank  you.  Mrs.  Rufort's  indispo- 
sition obliges  me  to  go  home. — Olive, 
shall  I  take  charge  of  you  and  Milli- 
ceut  ?  "  he  continued  in  a  low  tone  to 
Miss  Canterbury. 

Miss  Canterbury's  reply  was  to  rise 
and  put  her  arm  within  his.  "We  will 
also  wish  you  good  day,  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury." 

"  Dear  me,  how  very  unsocial  !  "  broke 
in  Mrs.  Kage,  as  she  had  recourse  to 
her  smelling-salts.  "We  thought  you 
would  all  have  sta}red  with  us,  dearest 
Miss  Canterbury." 

The  young  widow  rose  and  spoke  in 
some  hesitation.  "Olive,  I  shall  be 
happy  if  you  will  remain.  Do  not  bear 
malice.  This  disposal  of  his  property 
was  my  husband's  own  act." 

"  Malice  ! "  returned  Miss  Canter- 
bury, and  her  tone  was  certainly  free 
from  it,  "  we  do  not  bear  any  ;  you  are 
mistaken  if  you  think  so.  To-day  is 
not  a  day  for  the  indulgence  of  malice, 
Mrs.  Canterbury." 

"  At  least  say  farewell  in  cordiality." 

Mrs.  Canterbury  put  out  her  hand 
and  Olive  took  it.  Olive  then  stooped 
and  kissed  the  child,  her  young  half- 
brother,  a  gentle  little  fellow,  now  two 
years  old.  Whatever  undue  influence 
had  been  at  work  to  give  him  the  for- 
tune, part  of  which  ought  to  have  been 
hers  and  her  sisters',  it  was  no  doing  of 
the  child's,  and  Olive  Canterbury  was 
too  just  to  visit  it  upon  him.  Millicent 
also  kissed  him,  and  followed  her  sister 
and  Mr.  Rufort  from  the  room. 

"  And  now  PR  go,"  cried  Mr.  Carl- 
ton, "  and  I  wisk'*you  good-day,  ladies. 


And  I  wish  you  luck  over  your  of- 
fice, sir,"  he  added  in  a  marked  manner 
to  Mr.  Kage  :  "  it  is  one  I  and  my  old 
friend,  Lord  Rufort,  scorned  to  under- 
take.— Good-day,  Norris." 

Mr.  Norris  had  been  folding  up  the 
will,  and  now  laid  it  on  the  table. 
"Sir,"  said  he  to  Mr.  Kage,  "any  in- 
formation or  assistance  that  you  may  re- 
quire, I  shall  be  ready  to  afford."  And 
again  the  words  of  rejection  rose  to 
Thomas  Kage's  lips,  and  again  he  did 
not  speak  them. 

"  The  lawyer  bowed  himself  out  of 
the  room,  and  Mrs.  Kage  rose.  The 
affair  had  altogether  gone  off  so  much 
more  peaceably  than  she  had  antici- 
pated, that,  inwardly,  she  was  in  a  glow 
of  congratulation. 

"  I  feel  inclined  to  retire  and  com- 
pose myself  for  an  hour.  These  gloomy 
epochs  in  daily  life  try  one's  nerves  dis- 
tressingly ;  it  is  a  mercy  they  don't 
come  often.  Of  all  ceremonies,  funerals 
are  the  worst  for  delicate  susceptibilities, 

and  a  will-reading Thomas,  you  sue, 

now,  why  a  second  and  more  urgent 
summons  was  despatched  to  you,"  Mrs. 
Kage  broke  off  her  fanning  and  her 
sentence  to  say.  "  I  am  sure  you  will 
look  well  after  my  dear  child's  interests 
and  the  little  chickabiddy's." 

The  little  chickabiddy  had  betaken 
himself  to  the  window,  and  stood  on  a 
chair  in  his  short  black  frock,  looking 
out.  As  Thomas  Kage  came  back  from 
closing  the  door  after  the  lady  and  her 
fan,  Mrs.  Canterbury  could  but  notice 
the  marked  expression  of  severity  on 
his  countenance. 

"  Thomas,  you  are  angry  !  What  is 
the  matter  ?  " 

"Allow  me  to  put  the  question  to 
you,  Mrs.  Canterbury,  that  Mr.  Norris 
could  not  answer.  Whose  doing  was  it 
to  make  me  executor  to  this  will  ?  " 

"  I  think  my  husband  was  the  first  to 
propose  it :  and  I  and  mamma  gladly 
acquiesced.  There  is  no  one  I  can  feel 
so  safe  with  as  you." 

"  You  ought  to  have  inquired,  first  of 
all,  whether  I  was  willing  to  act." 

"  Would  you  have  refused  ?  " 

"Yes.     As  others  had  already  done." 

"  Others  had  not,"  she  returned. 
"  There  was  only  Mr.  Carlton." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  There  was 
Lord  Rufort." 

"  But  Lord  Rufort  was  an  interested 


136 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


party.  He  wanted  a  lot  of  money  left 
to  Jane.  Myr  husband  only  asked  those 
two."' 

"  I  wish  he  had  asked  me.  I  feel  this 
as  a  blow.     T  really  do." 

Mrs.  Canterbury  did  not  like  the 
tone.  "You  had 'better  decline  to  act 
now,"  she  said  in  petulant  resentment. 

"  I  think  I  shall,"  was  his  unexpect- 
ed answer. 

"  0  Thomas  !  You  do  not  care  what 
becomes  of  my  interests  ?  " 

"I  am  anxious  for  your  best  interests, 
Caroline.  But,  ere  consenting  to  take 
part  in  a  thing  like  this,  a  man  should 
sit  down  and  count  the  cost." 

"  What  cost  ?  " 

"  This  will  is  one  that  will  have  cen- 
sures cast  upon  it  from  far  and  wide. 
The  world  will  bitterly  condemn  it  and 
all  who  have  part  in  it." 

"  We  know  what  the  world's  scorn  is 
worth." 

"  Ay,  Caroline  ;  but  I  spoke  of  the 
scorn  of  good  men.  I,  as  your  relative 
and  the  sole  executor  of  the  will,  can- 
not hope  to  escape  it ;  complicity  is  the 
1 '  a s t  dark  reproach  that  will  be  thrown 
ai  me.  It  has  already  begun  :  when 
Miss  Canterbury  and  her  sister  bowed 
to  me  on  quitting  the  room,  and  when 
Mr.  Carlton  followed  with  his  marked 
words,  I  felt  like  a  guiltjT  accomplice, 
conscious  that  I  was  appearing  as  such 
to  them." 

"  I  remember,  a  long  while  ago,  you 
took  their  parts  !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  interrupted,  "  and  the 
conversation  I  then  held  with  \rou  ought 
to  have  prevented  my  being  thus  drawn 
in.  Caroline,  I  said  all  to  you  then  that 
I  thought  I  was  justified  in  saying  :  I 
besought  you  not  to  suffer  so  unjust  a 
will  to  stand  ;  not  to  deprive  Mr.  Can- 
terbury's daughters  of  their  rights. 
Were  the  case  mine,  I  would  cut  off  my 
right  hand  before  it  should  so  grasp  the 
propertj'  of  others." 

Airs.  Canterbury  let  fall  some  tears. 
"  My  husband  was  a  kind  husband  to  me, 
and  I  will  not  hear  this  reproach  cast 
upon  his  memory." 

"  I  cast  reproach  on  you,  not  on  Mr. 
Canterbury.  He  is  gone.  And  were  he 
.not,  were  he  sitting  by  your  side  now,  I 
would  honestly  aver  before  him  that  to 
you  reproach  was  due,  rather  than  to  him. 
0  Caroline,  is  it  possible  you  can  fancy 


the  world  does  not  see  this  transaction  in 
its  true  light?  That  Mr.  Canterbury 
was  influenced  to  make  this  unjust  will, 
is  palpable  as  are  the  stars  in  heaven. 
The  acting  element  may  have  been  your 
mother  ;  but  your  boasted  neutrality  was 
equally  culpable.  He  loved  his  daugh- 
ters ;  and  by  nature  he  was  not  an  un- 
just man." 

Mrs.  Canterbury  wept  in  silence. 
Though  she  had  never  loved  her  hus- 
band, she  felt  natural  grief  at  his  death. 
In  this  moment  she  was  feeling  it  much, 
and  it  was  mixed  up  with  a  little  self- 
reproach  and  a  great  deal  of  vexation. 

"  Just  tell  me  one  thing,"  she  sobbed 
forth,  as  she  drew  her  quiet  little  boy 
from  the  window  to  her  knee  ;  "  is  this  a 
fit  theme  for  the  very  day  that  my  hus- 
band is  put  into  his  grave  ?" 

"  Perhaps  it  is  not,"  he  returned,  "but 
the  conversation  arose  with  circum- 
stances ;  neither  of  us  entered  upon  it 
with  premeditation.  We  will  resume  it 
to-morrow,  Caroline ;  I  will  stay  for  it ; 
and  by  that  time  I  shall  have  reflected 
whether  or  not  I  will  act." 

"  No,"  dissented  Mrs.  Canterbury  ; 
"  if  you  choose  to  take  till  to-morrow  to 
decide  whether  you  will  perforin  the  part 
of' a  friend  to  me  and  this  fatherless  babe, 
you  must  do  so  ;  but  if  you  had  more  to 
say  on  this  point,  say  it  now,  for  not  an- 
other word  wdl  I  listen  to  again." 

"Not  now;  yon  have  reminded  me 
that  to-day  should  be  sacred." 

"  Now  or  never,"  she  impetuously 
said  ;   "it  shall  be  for  the  last  time." 

"  Very  well.  My  decision  cannot  be 
given  now;  but  I  will  say  what  I  have 
to  say,  and  offer  the  advice  I  wish  to  of- 
fer. Unpalatable  though  it  may  at  first 
sound,  I  beseech  you,  Caroline,  to  weigh 
it  well.  It  lies  in  j^our  power  to  repair 
the  injustice  of  the  will  ;  do  so.  At  lea^t, 
in  a  small  degree;  I  fear  it  would  be 
useless  for  me,  or  anyone,  to  urge  more. 
Make  over  to  the  Miss  Canterbury s  a 
sum  which  will  secure  to  them  the  income 
recently  allowed  to  them  by  their  father. 
And  should  this  little  fellow  ever  be  tak- 
en from  you,"  added  Mr.  Kage,  la^yim;- 
his  hand  upon  the  child's  head,  "  divide 
your  fortune  with  them." 

Mrs.  Canterbury  opened  her  e3res  in 
wide  astonishment.  Give  over  money 
that  would  bring  them  in  fifteen  hundred 
a-year  ! — divide  her  substance  with  them 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


137 


in  the  event  of  the  child's  death  !  She 
truly  thought  that  Thomas  Kage  must 
be  a  little  mad  to  suggest  it. 

"  Your  ideas  were  alwaj's  Utopian, 
Thomas,"  she  said,  when  a  few  almost 
angry  words  had  passed. 

"  The  time  may  come  when  you  will 
see  that  it  is  what  you  ought  to  do,"  was 
his  calm  answer. 

At  least  Mrs.  Canterbury  could  not  see 
it  now.  In  her  heart  she  was  a  miser, 
loving  money  ;  loving  show,  and  all  the 
other  good  things  that  money  can  bring. 
And  she  took  refuge  in  a  subterfuge. 

"  I  would  not  so  insult  my  husband's 
memory  as  to  render  his  acts  null  and 
void.  He  apportioned  his  money  as  he 
judged  well,  and  I  shall  abide  by  the  de- 
cision." 

"  I  will  wish  you  good-bye  for  the 
present  then,  Caroline." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  looking 
almost  beseechingly  into  his  face. 

"  You  will  act,  Thomas  ?  " 

"  When  I  have  made  up  my  mind  you 
shall  know  the  result.  I  can  scarcely 
see  which  way  my  duty  lies." 

As  Mr.  Kage  was  turning  out  of  the 
park-gates  into  the  high  road,  he  came 
suddenly  upon  a  gentleman  who  seemed 
to  be  looking  about  him  with  some  curi- 
osity ;  at  the  fine  large  house,  at  the 
magnificent  old  trees,  at  the  deer  that 
liked  to  rub  their  antlers  against  the  mas- 
sive trunks.  It  was  the  stranger  who 
had  talked  to  the  gazing  and  gossiping 
women  earlier  in  the  day.  There  ensued 
a  mutual  recognition. 

"  Kage,  it's  never  you  !  " 

"  Captain  Dawkes,  1  think.  How  are 
you  ?  I  supposed  }7ou  had  sailed  for  In- 
dia. The  departure  of  your  regiment 
was  announced  some  weeks  ago." 

"  Captain  Dawkes  no  longer,  unless  by 
courtesy  ;  I  have  sold  out.  Which  wa}r 
are  you  walking  ?  This  ?  I'll  turn  with 
you ;  all  ways  are  the  same  to  me,  for  I 
am  an  idle  man  just  now,  and  a  horribly 
bored  one." 

He  put  his  arm  uninvited  within  that 
of  Mr.  Kage,  and  thejr  went  onwards. 

"  I  leave  for  London  to-night,"  remark- 
ed Mr.  Kage.  "  Are  you  making  a  stay 
here  ?  " 

"  The  Fates  know.  Kage,  you  are  a 
good  fellow.  I  remember  that,  of  old  ; 
don't  proclaim  to  everybody  j'ou  meet  in 
London  that  you  have  seen  me  here.     I 


am  in  a  mess  again,  and  am  keeping  out 
of  the  reach  of  sheriffs'  officers." 

"  The  old  story,"  said  Mr.  Kage  pleas- 
antly. "  Be  at  ease.  I  will  forget  that 
I  have  seen  you." 

"  There's  a  solitary  public-house  in  a 
hamlet  abo.ut  a  mile  and  a  half  from  this, 
and  I've  taken  up  my  quarters  at  it,  tell- 
ing the  people  I'm  here  for  fishing.  I 
got  to  it  the  night  before  last." 

"From  London  ?  " 

"  London  has  not  seen  me  this  many  a 
week  past.  From  meandering  about  from 
one  rural  village  to  another,  like  a  wan- 
dering ghost,  I  wish  I  was  a  ghost  some- 
times." 

"  Is  Mrs.  G-arston  still  inexorable  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  know  whether  she  is 
or  not  better  than  I  do,"  retorted  Cap- 
tain Dawkes.  "You  see  her  often;  J, 
never." 

"  I  assure  you  I  know  nothing  of  your 
affairs.  As  a  proof  it,  I  imagined  you 
had  sailed  with  the  regiment.  It  must 
be  quite  a  twelvemonth  now  since  Mrs. 
Garston  has  allowed  me  to  mention  your 
name.  She  told  me  she  would  throw  her 
stick  at  my  head  if  I  ever  breathed  it 
again  ;  and  I  think  she  meant  it." 

"  Dreadful  old  tyrant !  "  muttered  the 
ex-captain. 

Fate  and  fortune  had  been  playing  fast 
and  loose  with  Barnaby  Dawkes  since  he 
had  last  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him. 
Walter  Annesley  recovered,  instead  of 
dying,  and  Belle  lost  the  promotion  in- 
tended for  her  by  the  gallant  Captain. 
He  continued  to  whisper  love  to  her,  to 
make  the  sunshine  of  her  existence,  and 
the  girl  was  too  happy  even  to  think  of 
anything  more.  The  next  turn  in  his 
fortune  was  a  legacy  inherited  by  Kezi- 
ah.  Of  course  Barnaby  fingered  the 
whole  of  it ;  it  relieved  him  from  some  of 
his  worst  embarrassments,  and  sent  him 
back  to  his  duty  in  Ireland.  More  debts 
were  made  then  —  it  really  seemed  a 
mania  with  Captain  Dawkes  to  make 
them,  as  if  he  were  utterly  unable  to 
keep  straight — and  the  old  ones,  unset- 
tled yet,  began  to  press  heavily  on  him. 
No  resource  remained  but  selling  his  com- 
mission, unless  Mrs.  Garston  would  relent. 
Over  to  London  he  came  again,  and  tried 
her.  Keziah  tried  her.  No.  The  best 
thing  for  Barby  would  be  to  sell  out,  was 
all  the  answer  she  gave.  And  Barby  did. 
A  little  while  of  ease   and  of  extrava- 


138 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


gance,  and  of  mailing  sweet  love  again 
to  Belle  Annesley,  and  then  inor.e  debts 
cropped  up.  Captain  Dawkes,  quite  on 
his  beam-ends  now,  had  to  disappear 
from  the  busy  world,  and  hide  himself  in 
romote  districts.  It  was  a  strange  chance 
that  brought  him  to  Chilling. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  this  part  of 
the  country,  Kage  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  attend  Mr.  Canterbury's 
funeral.  Have  you  seen  much  of  the 
scenery  about  here  ?  It  is  very  beauti- 
ful." 

"What  do  I  care  for  scenery  ?  If  it 
showed  gold-mines,  I  might  look  at  it. 
People  are  saying  his  will  is  an  unjust 
one." 

"  Very  unjust,"  replied  Thomas  Kage  ; 
"  Mr.  Canterbury  has  left  his  large  for- 
tune to  his  wife  and  son,  to  the  exclusion 
of  his  daughters.  The  good  old  notions 
of  right  and  wrong  seem  to  be  out  of 
fashion  nowadays." 

"  Completely  so,"  assented  Mr. 
Dawkes.  "  Witness  the  conduct  of  that 
selfish  old  party  in  Loudon  next  door  to 

you." 

Thomas  Kage  smiled. 

"  I  don't  know  the  Canterburys,  for 
my  part,"  observed'  Captain  Dawkes; 
"  it's  all  the  same  to  me  how  the  money's 
lef .  Didn't  know  their  place  was  in 
these  parts  until  to-day.  She  is  uncom- 
monly charming,  they  say." 

He  alluded  to  Mrs.  Canterbury. 
Thomas  Kage  did  not  encourage  the 
conversation,  and  turned  off  to  pay  a 
visit  at  the  Rectory,  wishing  his  com- 
panion good-day.  But  when  he  came 
out  again,  there  stood  Captain  Dawkes, 
waiting  for  another  parting  word. 

"  Kage,  could  you  do  a  fellow  a  ser- 
vice r " 

f  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Lend  me  ten  pounds.  I'm  regular- 
ly down  in  the  world,  and  it  will  be  an 
act  of  charity." 

"  I  have  nothing  like  so  much  money 
with  me."  replied  Mr.  Kage.  "  And  I 
must  keep  something  for  my  fare  up." 

Captain  Dawkes  bit  his  lips. 

"  Couldn't  you  borrow  from  some  of 
the  rich  people  down  here  ?  " 

"  No,    Dawkes,  I  cannot  do  that.     I 

•  will  see  wdiat  I  can  lend  you,"  he  added, 

taking  out  his  purse.     "  Five,  six,  and 

some  silver.     I    can   let   you  have  four 

pounds,  if  it  will  be  of  any  use." 


"  Make  it  five,  Kage,  make  it  five  ;  you 
don't  know  how  desperately  I  require 
it." 

The  tone  was  one  of  painful  entreaty  ; 
and  Thomas  Kage,  after  a  moment's  hes- 
itation, put  five  sovereigns  in  his  hand. 
It  would  entail  his  getting  back  to  Lon- 
don in  the  cheapest  manner  ;  but  he  was 
one  who  rather  searched,  than  not,  to 
make  sacrifices  for  others.  It  was  all 
one  to  Barnaby  Dawkes  ;  provided  he 
got  the  money,  Kage  might  take  the 
stoker's  place  on  the  engine,  and  wel- 
come. 

"  Try  and  say  a  good  word  for  me  with 
that  ancient  deaf  mummy,  Kage  !  She'll 
repay  you  the  five  pounds,"  continued 
the  Captain  with  cool  assurance.  u  Tell 
her  you  let  me  have  it  to  keep  me  out  of 
the  slough  of  despond  in  the  shape  of 
the  nearest  pool." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MORE   VIGOROUS    THAN    EVER. 

In  the  dining-room  at  Mrs.  Garston's, 
very  much  as  we  once  saw  them  before, 
sat  that  ancient  lady  and  Keziah  Dawkes. 

About  nine  months  before,  Miss 
Dawkes  had  rather  mysteriously  disap- 
peared from  London.  Mysteriously,  be- 
cause she  never  said  a  word  of  her  in- 
tention to  go  ;  neither  did  she  disclose 
the  place  she  might  happen  to  be  bound 
for.  Since  then,  Mrs.  Garston  had  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  her  occasionally,  in 
which  she  stated  she  was  travelling  from 
place  to  place  in  search  of  health.  The 
shrewd  old  lady  knew  that  there  was 
some  private  motive  in  all  this,  just  as 
surely  as  though  Keziah  had  told  her ; 
and  she  suspected  it  had  reference  to 
Barnaby  ;  for  Captain  Dawkes  had  dis- 
appeared from  London  even  longer  ago 
than  Keziah,  and  was  entirely  a  myth. 
Time  rolls  on  in  its  course  in  spite  of  us. 
Nearly  twelve  months  had  elapsed  since 
the  death  of  George  Canterbury,  and 
autumn  tints  were  stealing  again  into 
the  foliage. 

Mrs.  Garston  decidedly  grew  younger; 
she  was  more  vigorous  in  look  and 
tongue  and  temper.  The  past  twelve 
months  seemed  only  to  have  renewed 
her  strength.     It  had  passed  in  an  un- 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


133 


usually  peaceful  manner,  for  neither  Cap- 
tain Dawkes  nor  Keziah  came  forth  to 
persecute  her  on  the  score  of  his  needs. 
Eor  recreation,  she  had  Thomas  Kage, 
who  passed  most  of  his  evenings  with 
her,  except  when  he  was, on  circuit,  and 
diligently  waited  on  her,  and  read  the 
news  to  her  in  the  loudest  tone  he  could 
command,  and  gave  her  his  arm  twice 
on  a  Sunday  from  the  carriage-door  to 
her  pew  in  church — for  she  went  to  ser- 
vice twice  always,  in  spite  of  her  eighty 
years — and  was  to  her  as  a  son. 

But  one  day,  when  Mrs.  Garston  was 
least  expecting  it  or  thinking  of  it,  Miss 
Dawkes  walked  into  her  dining-room. 
The  .old  lady  sat  there  in  the  morning, 
beeause  she  got  the  sunshine. 

There  ensued  a  slight  explanation  from 
Keziah,  simply  to  the  effect  that  she  had 
come  back  to  London  again,  most  likely 
for  good,  and  then  a  passage-at-arms. 
The  old  lady  sat  upright,  keen-eyed,  de- 
liberately inaccessible. 

"  Where's  the  use  of  your  beating 
about  the  bush,  Keziah?  What  is  it  to 
me  that  your  old  lodgings  in  the  street 
in  Pimlico  were  let,  and  you've  had  to 
take  up  with  another  street  ?  Tell  out 
the  truth — that  you  have  only  come  here 
to  ask  for  money." 

"  I  have  not  asked  you  for  any  for  a 
long  while,  Aunt  Garston." 

Mrs.  Garston  brought  down  her  stick 
vehemently.  "  Don't  beat  about  the 
bush,  I  tell  you.  Have  you  come  for 
mone}r  for  Barby  ?  " 

"  I  have,  aunt ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
hear  me,  for  Barnaby's  sake." 

Straining  all  her  faculties  to  listen,  the 
dame  caught  the  sense  of  the  words. 
Keziah's  belief  was,  that  she  heard  better 
than  before,  and  she  mentally  asked  her- 
self the  question,  "  Was  the  ancient 
creature  to  go  on  living  forever  ?  " 

"Where  have  you  been  hiding  your- 
self, Keziah  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  staying  in  the  country, 
Aunt  Garston.  I  actually  went  ha}rmak- 
ing,  do  you  know  ?  " 

Four  or  five  irritable  nods. 
"  Look  here,  Keziah  Dawkes :  I 
know  just  as  well  as  you  can  tell  me 
that  you  have  been  in  hiding  with  Bar- 
by — keeping  guard  over  him,  maybe,  and 
fencing  him  in  from  the  consequences  of 
his  debts.  But  I  choose  to  be  told. 
You  disclose  to  me  all  about  him — where 


you've  both  been,  and  what  you've  been 
doing." 

"  Indeed,  aunt,  there's  nothing  partic- 
ular to  disclose." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  old  lady,  firm- 
ly and  coldly ;  "  we'll  let  it  go  so,  if  you 
please,  Keziah  ;  but  not  another  single 
syllable  will  I  hear  of  what  you've  come 
to  sa}\" 

Keziah  knew  the  tone  of  old;  knew 
that  the  resolution  thus  expressed  could 
never  be  broken.  In  the  silence  that 
ensued,  she  asked  herself  whether  it 
might  not  be  better  to  tell — at  least  in 
part.  Barnabj'  had  strictty  forbidden 
her  to  say  where  he  was,  or  what  he  was 
doing ;  but  she  thought  she  could  cook 
up  the  history,  and  deprive  it  of  harm. 
If  you,  good  reader,  object  to  the  word 
"  cook  "  in  such  a  matter,  I  can  only  say 
it  was  the  one  that  ran  through  Miss 
Dawkes's  mind. 

"  I  will  tell  3rou,  aunt,"  she  said  with 
well-acted  frankness,  as  she  crossed  the 
hearth-rug,  and  ventured  to  place  her 
grajT  bonnet  in  close  proximity  to  the 
least  deaf  ear.  "  If  we  have  kept  our 
movements  from  you,  it  was  only  to 
spare  you  pain." 

Mrs.  Garston  gave  a  derisive  grunt, 
and  disposed  herself  to  listen  to  the  tale, 
which  she  interrupted  perpetually. 

"  When  Barnaby  quitted  London  some 
months  ago,  Aunt  Garston — " 

"  It's  twelve  months,  if  it's  a  day." 

"  Twelve  months  ago,  he  wandered 
about  the  country  on  foot,  to  save  ex- 
pense. But  even  that  he  found  beyond 
his  means,  for  roadside  inns  are  expen- 
sive for  a  slender  pocket — " 

"  That's  according  to  what  he  ordered 
in  them,  Keziah." 

"  And  at  last  he  took  a  little  tiny  cot- 
tage near  to  a  trout-stream,  and  there 
settled  down,  passing  his  time  catching 
the  fish,  which  he  lived  upon." 

"  Did  he  ?     Don't  tell  me  !  " 

"  But  it  was  verjr  dull  for  him  ;  and 
the  rent  of  even  that  poor  little  place 
was  more  than  he  could  afford.  He 
wrote  to  me,  and  asked  me  if  I  would  go 
down  and  join  my  income  to  his." 

"  What  is  his  ?  " 

"  Ah,  you  may  well  ask  it,  Aunt  Gars- 
ton !  It's  nothing ;  for  what  he  had 
been  living  upon  was  only  a  small  rem- 
nant left  after  paying  his  creditors — a 
few  pounds  saved  from  the  wreck." 


140 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


"  Paying  his  creditors !  I  didn't 
know  they  were  paid." 

"  Some  were,  aunt." 

"  0,  some  !    Go  on." 

"And  I  answered  his  appeal  by  going 
down  ;  and  we  have  been  doing  our  best 
to  exist  upon  my  poor  pittance,  without 
troubling  others  to  help  us.  But  living 
is  expensive  everywhere,  especially  for  a 
gentleman  ;  and  I — I,  determined  not  to 
get  into  debt,  forestalled  my  own  income  ! 
Aunt  Garston,  for  some  years  to  come,  I 
shall  scarcely  receive  what  will  keep  me 
in  bread-and-butter.  I  mean  it  liter- 
ally." 

That  this  was  true — the  forestalling  of 
her  income — the  pain  in  her  countenance 
betrayed  :  and  Mrs.  Garston  saw  it. 

"  More  idiot  you,  Keziah  !  Barnaby 
won't  thank  you  for  it." 

"Well,  the  money  I  borrowed  on  my 
income  is  gone,  aunt :  and  it  is  hard  to 
starve.  It  is  ver}'  hard  to  see  Mm 
starve.  I  have  come  up  to  ask  you  to 
help  us." 

In  the  main,  the  above  was  all  correct ; 
but  had  Mrs.  Garston  been  able  to  take 
a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  pretty  cottage 
thuis  inhabited,  and  the  luxurious  style 
kept  up  in  it  in  a  small  way,  she  had 
defined  Keziah  a  good  story-teller. 

':'And  pray  why  have  you  kept  your 
residence  there  a  secret  ?  " 

Ah,  why  !  It  was  not  Keziah's  pleas- 
ure to  tell.  She  gave  as  an  excuse 
(partly  true,  again)  what  she  would  far 
rather  have  kept  out  of  view. 

"  On  account  of  Barnaby's  creditors, 
aunt ;  it  would  not  do  for  them  to  sus- 
pect where  he  was." 

"  And  where  was  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  went  about  from  place  to 
place,"  answered  Keziah  carelessly. 

"Did  the  cottage  you  were  starving 
in  go  about  with  you  ?  "  was  the  sharp 
question  that  ensued. 

It  was  of  no  use  attempting  to  deceive 
Mrs.  Garston.  Keziah  felt  that  she 
could  have  struck  the  keen  gray  eyes, 
that  were  looking  her  through  and 
through. 

"  I  only  mean  we  went  sometimes, 
aunt."  Which  was  untrue,  for  they 
never  had  gone. 

"  Where  is  the  cottage  ?  How  many 
more  times  am  I  to  he  put  off?" 

u  It  is  in  Wales  "  And  Miss  Dawkes 
spoke  a  very  unpronounceable  name. 


"  What  ?  Can't  you  speak  louder  ?  " 
shrieked  the  old  lady,  supposing  the  de- 
fect lay  in  her  hearing. 

"It's  impossible  to  pronounce  it,  aunt, 
plainer  than  that.  Barnaby  and  I 
never  tried  to.  It  is  in  a  remote  district 
of  Wales  ;  he  chose  it  because  of  the 
cheapness." 

"  Is  he  there  still  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton, satisfied  in  a  tart  way  with  the  ex- 
planation, and  deceived  for  once. 

"Yes,  aunt,  he  is  there,  waiting  until 
I  can  send  him  some  relief.  Aunt, 
dear  aunt,  you'll  not  refuse  it !  I 
don't  petition  for  a  large  sum  — just  a 
hundred  pounds,  to  enable  him  to  go 
on  for  another  year." 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  him  ?  " 

"Not  just  yet.  What  do  you  say, 
aunt  ?  " 

"That  I'll  not  give  you  a  farthing  for 
him." 

Keziah's  hard  face  took  a  tinge  as 
green  as  her  unbecoming  bonnet-strings. 

"  Aunt  ! " 

"  Not  a  farthing,  Keziah  Dawkes.  If 
Barby  chooses  to  come  to  town  and  see 
me,  he'll  hear  a  bit  of  my  mind,  and  I'll 
then  tell  him  what  I  will  do  and  what  I 
won't." 

"  But  he  could  not  come  to  town.  His 
creditors  might  see  him." 

"  Be  you  very  sure  of  one  thing,  Mis- 
tress Keziah  :  if  Barby  wanted  to  run 
up  for  his  own  pleasure,  it  is  not  fear  of 
his  creditors  would  stop  him  :  he'd  con- 
trive to  dodge  them.  As  you  please. 
If  he  comes,  and  I  see  my  way  clear  to 
give  him  a  trifle,  I'll  do  it ;  but  he'll  not 
get  a  brass  sixpence  sent  to  him." 

And  with  that  Keziah  was  forced  to  be 
content,  for  there  might  be  no  appeal 
from  these  stern  decisions.  She  took 
luncheon,  and  sat  with  Mrs.  Garston  for 
the  afternoon,  but  would  not  stay  to  dine, 
preferring  to  depart,  that  she  might 
write  a  private  letter  to  Barbv. 

"Why,  child!     Is  it  you  f" 

A  fairy-faced  girl,  with  blue  eyes  and 
gleaming  hair,  came  right  into  Keziah's 
way  as  she  was  passing  through  Mrs. 
Garston's  gate.  It  was  Belle  Annesley, 
but  the  face  appeared  to  be  a  little  thin 
and  worn. 

"  Have  you  been  ill,  Belle  ?  You  look 
delicate." 

Not  at  first  did  Keziah  get  any  an- 
swer.    The     long    absence    of    Captain 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    W I L  L 


141 


Dawkes  from  London,  the  dearth  of  news 
from  him,  the  uncertainty  of  when  they 
should  be  meeting  again,  had  been  wear- 
ing out  this  poor  girl's  heart,  if  not  her 
frame.  In  the  revulsion  of  joy  at  meet- 
ing Keziah,  breath  and  speech  alike  mo- 
mentarily left  her. 

"  0  Miss  Dawkes  !  I  am  so  glad  to 
see  you  ! " 

Knowing  what  Keziah  knew  of  Bar- 
naby's  former  love  —  or  make-believe 
love  —  for  this  young  girl, — knowing 
what  she  knew  of  his  present  hopeful 
projects,  she  deemed  it  well,  now  that 
the  first  surprise  had  passed,  to  be 
rather  chillingly  reserved. 

"  Have  you  come  back  for  good,  Miss 
Dawkes  ?  " 
"  Probably." 

"  Is  —  your  —  brother  quite  well  ?  " 
stammered  Belle,  her  face  flushing  pain- 
fully. 

"  I  believe  so.  He  was  the  last  time 
I  heard  from  him." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  Belle  asked  in  her 
desperate  courage. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Annesley,  he  is  here 
and  there  and  everywhere.  Captain 
Dawkes  was  never  famous  for  the  cer- 
tainty of  his  movements,  as  you  perhaps 
remember.  I  do  not  suppose  London 
will  ever  see  him  again.  Good-bye;  I 
stayed  too  long  with  Mrs.  Garston,  and 
am  in  a  hurry." 

She  sailed  swiftly  away  ;  and  Belle 
Annesley  drew  aside  from  the  garden- 
path  and  put  her  cheek,  fading  to  white- 
ness, against  the  trunk  of  one  of  the 
clustering  trees.  The  one  cruel  sen- 
tence, "  1  do  not  suppose  London  will 
ever  see  him  again,"  seemed  to  strike 
the  life  from  her  heart.  All  this  while, 
months  and  months  now,  she  had,  so  to 
say,  lived  on  the  remembrance  of  Bar- 
naby  Dawkes.  Hers  was  no  transient 
love  ;  the  capability  to  feel  the  passion 
ia  all  its  depths  lay  within  her,  and  Cap- 
tain Dawkes  had  done  his  best  to  call 
it  forth.  If  it  suited  him  to  propose 
marriage  to  her — that  is,  to  patch  up 
his  penniless  state  with  the  moderate 
means  that  would  be  hers — well  and 
good  ;  if  it  suited  him  to  desert  her — 
to  pass  off  all  that  had  passed,  his  love 
whispers  and  love  vows,  as  mere  pastime 
—  well  and  good  also.  The  girl  and 
her  feelings  went  for  absolutely  nothing 
in  the  estimation  of  Barnaby  Dawkes, 


ex-officer  and  gentleman.  There  are 
very  many  more  men  besides  him  to 
whom  a  girl's  heart  seems  but  a  worth- 
less plaything. 

He  was  killing  time  elsewhere,  ab- 
sorbed in  other  plans  and  prospects. 
She  lived  on  the  love  of  the  past.  It 
served  her  still ;  nothing  else  in  exist- 
ence was  half  so  sweet ;  she  fondly 
hoped  it  would  serve  her,  realised,  in 
the  future.  For  this  gallant  captain 
and  honorable  man  contrived  to  let 
Belle  think  he  was  still  her  slave — hers 
only,  and  forever.  It  might  be  well 
(the  Captain  mentally  argued,  looking 
ahead)  to  provide  against  contingencies  ; 
to  have  the  young  girl  and  her  three 
hundred  a-year  to  fall  back  upon  if 
grander  dreams  failed.  Two  or  three 
letters,  carefully  worded  and  posted 
from  some  strangely  out-of-the  way 
places,  (had  found  their  course  to  her, 
enjoining  her  not  to  forget  him.  Belle 
only  too  literally  carried  out  the  injunc- 
tion. Any  honorable  man  would  have 
deemed  himself  as  irrevocably  bound  to 
Belle  Annesley  as  though  their  engage- 
ment had  been  ratified  by  all  the  for- 
malities that  attend  a  betrothal  in  the 
Vaterland  ;  and  Belle  regarded  it  as 
such.  Captain  Dawkes  simply  intend- 
ed to  play  fast  and  loose,  as  circumstan- 
ces and  self-interest  dictated. 

But  the  long  delay,  the  absence  of  all 
certain  news,  perhaps  some  subtle  in- 
stinct that  on  occasion  mercifully  pre- 
cedes an  avalanche  of  misery,  had  been 
making  havoc  with  Belle's  secret  heart. 
Energy  had  gone;  lively  expectation 
had  gone  ;  and  hope  only  broke  out  by 
fits  and  starts.  All  she  thought  was, 
that  his  affairs  had  fallen  into  a  hope- 
less state,  and  she  feared  they  might 
never  be  redeemed  to  allow  of  his  com- 
ing out  of  exile  to  marry  her.  Ah,  yes, 
the  depressing  words  of  Miss  Dawkes 
were  needlessly  cruel ;  and  she  felt  them 
so  as  she  leaned  for  support  against  the 
tree. 

"Why,  Belle!  What  is  it,  my 
dear  ?  " 

It  was  Thomas  Kage :  who  had  come  in 
at  the  gate  and  caught  a  view  of  her  ere 
she  was  aware  any  one  was  there:  the  poor 
pale  cheek  against  the  tree,  the  damp 
browT,  the  hopeless  wretchedness  of  the 
whole  countenance,  the  listless  hands 
hanging    down.       Thomas    Kage    had 


142 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


nursed  her  on  his  knee  when  she  was  a 
child  ;  he  regarded  her  as  such  still,  and 
was  apt  to  address  her  like  a  tender 
elder  brother.  With  a  start  she  leaped 
away  and  stood  in  the  path,  her  face 
crimson,  stammering  some  words  of 
ready  excuse. 

But  Thomas  Kage  was  not  to  be  de- 
ceived. The  sight  of  Keziah,  to  whom 
he  had  spoken  in  passing,  enlightened 
him.  There  were  two  people  in  the 
world  who  had  not  been  wholly  blind  to 
Captain  Dawkes's  love-making — Sarah 
Annesley,  now  the  wife  of  Richard 
Dunn,  and  Mr.  Kage ;  and  both  had 
watched  the  effect  that  hope  deferred 
was  taking  on  that  young  heart. 

"  I — I  was  going  in  to  say  how  d'ye 
do  to  Mrs.  Garston,"  she  spoke  hastily. 
"But  I  don't  think  I'll  go  now;  it  is 
late." 

She  was  passing  onwards  to  the  gate, 
but  he  caught  her  hand.  Not  thus 
would  he  let  her  escape,  if  he  could  say 
only'half  a  word  of  comfort. 

"  Treat  me  as  your  elder  brother, 
Belle.  I'm  sure  I  might  be  your  father, 
so  far  as  feelings  go,  for  in  them  I  am 
old.     Tell  me  what  your  trouble  is." 

"  I — have  no  trouble,"  she  answered 
in  a  flutter. 

He  had  her  hand  in  his,  gazing  on 
her  downcast  face  and  its  trembling 
emotion.  It  was  too  much  perhaps  to 
expect  her  to  speak  openly  to  him,  and 
yet  he  wished  she  would.  For  Mr. 
Kage  had  scanty  confidence  in  Barnaby 
Dawkes,  and  it  might  be  as  well  that 
this  child  should  not  go  drifting  blindly 
on  without  a  rudder. 

"  Did  Miss  Dawkes  give  you  any 
news  of  her  brother  ?  " 

"No.  I  think  she  does  not  know 
where  he  is.  She  says  he  will  not  come 
back  for  a  long  while,  if  ever." 

"  Were  I  a  young  lady,  Belle,  I 
should  call  that  good  news,"  he  mean- 
ingly said. 

"  You  do  not  like  Captain  Dawkes, 
Mr.  Kacre ;  I  have  known  that  before," 
spoke  Belle ;  and  her  hearer  could  not 
be  deaf  to  the  tone  of  resentment  the 
voice  took. 

"  You  are  wrong,  my  dear.  Person- 
ally, I  neither  like  nor  dislike  Captain 
Dawkes.  I  think  this  of  him — that  he 
is  not  worth  the  love  of  an  honest  girl." 


"  Why  is  he  not  ?  " — and  the  heaving 
chest  proved  what  the  question  cost. 

"  He  has  no  stability.  And  the  love, 
instead  of  finding  him  a  sure  anchor, 
might  get  thrown  back  to  its  giver.  1 
should  forget  Captain  Dawkes,  Belle  ; 
put  him  out  of  my  memory  altogether." 

Belle  burst  into  a  forced  laugh. 

"  This  is  all  metaphor,"  she  said,  pass- 
ing him  ;    "  we  are  forgetting  common 
sense.     I    must    wish    you     good-bye 
mamma  will   wonder   what  is   keepii.* 
me." 

"  Is  your  mamma  better?  " 

M  She  is  better  one  hour  and  worse 
the  next.  I  shall  say  Thomas  Kage  in- 
quired after  her." 

He  stood  a  moment  watching  her  flit- 
ting footsteps,  and  that  peculiar  and  fre- 
quent action  of  hers — the  drawing  of  her 
mantle  closer  to  her  chest.  It  was  as  if 
she  always  felt  cold  there. 

Mrs.  Garston,  stick  in  hand,  was  stand- 
ing at  her  drawing-room  window  when 
he  entered.  She  turned  her  head,  speak- 
ing sharpty. 

"  Who  was  that  you  had  got  in  my 
garden  ?     Belle  Annesley  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  thinking  how  keen 
the  old  eyes  still  were.  "  She  was  com- 
ing in  to  see  you,  but  seemed  to  think  it 
rather  too  late." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  that  child, 
Thomas  Kage  ?  " 

"The  matter?" 

"  Now  don't  you  pick  up  my  words  as 
if  you  were  the  parish  echo.  1  can  tell, 
if  you  can't, — she's  pining  after  that 
man.  Barhy  Dawkes." 

Had  Mrs.  Garston  gravely  asserted 
Miss  Belle  was  pining  after  the  man  in 
the  moon,  he  could  not  have  been  more 
surprised.  How  had  she  known  it?  A 
thought  flashed  over  him  that  Mrs.  Rich- 
ard Dunn  must  have  let  a  word  drop, 
perhaps  inadvertently. 

"  She  has  got  the  yellow  sickness  fret- 
ting after  that  flashy  gentleman  and  his 
shiny  whiskers.  You  need  not  stare, 
Thomas  Kage  ;  that's  what  we  used  to  call 
it  in  my  young1  days,  when  a  girl  took  a 
false  man  into  her  heart  and  couldn't  put 
him  out  of  it  again.  What  business  had 
Barhy  Dawkes  to  make  love  to  the 
girl?" 

As  Mr.  Kage  could  not  say,  he  remain- 
ed silent. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


143 


"  There  are  some  fellows  who  would 
make  love  to  a  pump-handle.  You  may 
thank  your  stars  that  you  are  not  one, 
for  trouble  mostly  comes  of  it.  Though 
you  were  touched  once,  Thomas  Kage." 

"  I,  ma'am  !     Touched  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  you.  After  that  heartless 
Kage  girl,  who  went  out  and  made  her- 
self an  old  man's  wife.  Barby's  a  sol- 
dier, and  has  a  soldier's  impudence  ;  but 
he  might  have  spared  a  poor  weak  child 
like  Belle  Annesley." 

Even  at  that  distance  of  time  the  red 
color  flushed  the  brow  of  Thomas  Kage 
at  this  abrupt  allusion  to  his  once  dear- 
est and  most  secret  feelings.  He  rejoin- 
ed carelessly  ;  anything  that  came  upper- 
most. 

"  I  met  Miss  Dawkes  as  I  came  in. 
She  had  been  to  see  you." 

"  She  had  been  to  beg  of  me.  It's  the 
old  story  over  again,  Thomas  ;  Barby's 
needs  and  Barby's  debts.  It  will  never 
he  anything  else  while  his  life  shall  last." 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  now  ? 
Abroad,  I  suppose." 

"  He  is  at  some  place  with  a  crack-jaw 
name.  Keziah  has  got  her  answer.  If 
Barby  chooses  to  come  up,  he  shall  hear 
once  for  all  what  I  mean  to  do  for  him. 
And  he'll  be  fit  to  eat  his  fingers  when 
he  finds  I  have  chosen  another  heir. 
And  that's  yourself,  Thomas." 

He  did  not  appear  to  understand  her. 

"  Myself !     For  what,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  For  what  ?  For  that.  The  greater 
portion  of  my  money  will  descend  to 
you." 

For  a  minute  or  two  he  seemed  to  he 
unable  to  take  in  the  sense  of  the  words. 
And  then  his  whole  face  flushed  with  a 
kind  of  fear ;  his  hands  were  lifted  as  if 
to  ward  off  an  evil. 

"Never,  never;  Mrs.  Garston,  this 
must  not  be,"  he  cried  in  deep  emotion. 
"  Leave  your  money,  I  pray  you,  to  any- 
one rather  than  to  me." 

"  What !  "  shrieked  Mrs.  Garston. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  seeming 
ingratitude  ;  I  thank  you  truly  for  your 
good  intention.  But  I  could  not  take 
the  money.  I  have  no  right  to  it,  and 
would  not  inherit  it." 

They  stood  glaring  on  each  other  ;  at 
least  that  expression  might  be  applied  to 
the  angry  stare  in  her  wide-open  steel- 
gray  eyes.    His  were  as  honest  and  good 


as  ever,  but  unmistakably  in  earnest. 
She,  in  her  pearl-gray  satin  dress  and 
ruffles  of  point  lace,  was  as  stately  and 
stern  and  grand  a  dame  as  ever  painter 
depicted  upon  canvas. 

"  I  wonder  what  your  mother  would 
say  to  hear  you,  Thomas  Kage." 

"  Were  my  mother  to  hear  me — and 
perhaps  she  can,"  he  reverently  added, — 
"  I  think  that  she  would  approve  of  all 
I  say.  Dear,  dear  Mrs.  Garston,  believe 
that  I  am  truly  grateful,  but  you  must 
not  make  me  the  heir  to  your  wealth." 

"Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  I 
might  make  you  the  heir  ?  " 

"No,  never.  I  think — I  almost  think 
that  if  it  had  I  should  set  conventional- 
ity at  defiance  and  spoken  first,  telling 
you  that  it  must  not  be." 

"  What  is  your  objection  ?  " 

"That  I  have  no  right  to  it.  Were 
you  to-leave  me  your  money,  and  I  could 
ever  bring  myself  to  enjoy  it,  I  should 
feel  always  as  though  I  were  a  thief — a 
robber  of  Barnaby  Dawkes." 

"  Barnaby  Dawkes  will  not  get  it." 

"You  have  other  relatives.  I  am  not 
one.  I  have  no  right  to  a  shilling  of  it. 
And  I  think  money  should  not  be  divert- 
ed from  its  legitimate  course  without 
grave  cause  ;  but  I  hope  }rou  will  forgive 
me  for  saying  so.  During  this  past 
twelve  month  of  my  executorship  to  Mr. 
Canterbury's  will,  the.  papers  have  never 
been  in  my  hand  but  the  injustice  of  that 
will  has  struck  upon  me  with  fresh  pain. 
I  should  not  like  to  be  made  a  second 
example  of  it." 

"  Look  you  well,  Thomas  Kage  :  if  I 
take  you  at  your  word  now,  I  take  it  for 
good  and  aye.     Mind  you  that." 

"  Indeed  I  hope  and  expect  it  is  what 
you  will  do.  My  dear  mother  did  not 
pray  for  wealth  for  me,"  he  added  in  a 
half-whisper,  an  earnest  radiance  in  his 
dark  eyes  ;  "  least  of  all  wealth  to  which 
I  had  no  right :  rather  than  that,  pov- 
erty. God  has  given  me  health  and 
strength  and  brains  to  earn  my  own  liv- 
ing, dear  Mrs.  Garston,  and  I  should  pre- 
fer to  do  it." 

'*  Listen  to  a  word  first.      I — " 

"Dinner  is  served,  madam,"  interpos- 
ed the  footman,  opening  the  door  with  a 
swing. 

Down  came  Mrs.  Garston's  stick  in 
anger ;  she  nearly  threw  it  at  him. 


144 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


"  Dinner  may  wait,"  she  sharply  said  ; 
and  the  man  shut  the  door  again. 

"  Are  you  listening  to  me,  Thomas 
Kage  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  am." 

"Very  well.  You  have  just  said,  per- 
haps your  mother  can  hear  us, — and  I 
don't  know  whether  such  a  thought 
comes  from  heaven,  or  whether  it  doesn't, 
— hut  at  least,  in  the  teeth  of  it,  I'd  not 
say  aught  but  what's  true  as  heaven's 
Gospel.  Whoever  may  inherit  the  bulk 
of  my  fortune,  Bamaby  Daickes  will 
not.  Neither  will  any  other  relative  I 
may  possess  in  the  world.  This  decision 
I  shall  never  revoke.  If  you  refuse  it, 
it  will  go  to  strangers.  Now,  then,  consid- 
er.    Take  your  time  before  you  answer." 

"  I  could  not  answer  differently  if  I 
considered  forever,"  he  gently  answered. 
"  Thank  you  very  truly  ;  but  it  must  be 
as  I  say." 

Possibly  the  gentleness  disarmed  her 
wrath.  The  stick  was  held  quietly,  and 
she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  to  go  in  to 
dinner. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A    PAINFUL    INTERVIEW. 

The  twelvemonth  went  by,  and 
Thomas  Kage  was  ready  to  resign  his 
executorship  :  some  law  details  had  thus 
protracted  the  settlement.  The  deed  of 
release  was  forwarded  for  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury and  the  other  parties  to  sign,  and 
Mr.  Kage  also  left  London  for  the  Rock  : 
there  was  no  legal  necessity  for  his  pre- 
sence there,  but  he  chose  to  spare  the 
time  for  the  journey.  The  railway  was 
now  extended  to  within  two  miles  of  the 
Rock  ;  and  an  omnibus,  as  Mr.  Kage 
was  informed,  plied  between  the  termi- 
nus and  Chilling.  He  was  hastening  to 
luok  for  the  conveyance  when  he  ran 
across  Mr.  Carlton.  That  gentleman 
had  long  been  disabused  of  his  resent- 
ment against  Mr.  Kage  on  the  subject 
of  the  executorship  ;  for  the  lawyer, 
Norris,  told  him  how  craftily  the  appoint- 
ment had  been    made. 

"  Don't  get  into  that  jolting  omnibus," 
cried  the  warm-hearted  squire  ;  "  let  me 
drive  you  in  my  pony-gig  ;  there's  room 
for  you  and  your  portmanteau  too.     I 


came  to  look  after  a  parcel  of  books,  and 
it  has  not  arrived." 

They  were  soon  bowling  along  the 
road,  Mr.  Cai'lton  full  of  gossip,  as  he 
loved  to  be.  In  relating  some  news 
he  .  mentioned  the  name  of  Captain 
Dawkes. 

"  Captain  Dawkes  !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Kage.     "What!  is  he  here?" 

And  Mr.  Kage  found,  to  his  very  great 
surprise,  that  Captain  Dawkes  was  not 
only  there  at  present,  but  had  been  there 
ever  since,  or  nearly  ever  since,  his  first 
appearance  in  the  place  twelve  months 
before.  Just  for  a  few  moments  he  could 
scarcely  believe  it :  that  Captain 
Dawkes  should  remain  at  Chilling  had 
never  crossed  the  mind  of  Thomas  Kage. 
A  certain  five-pound  note,  borrowed,  had 
been  intended  to  take  him  to  some  re- 
mote fishing-town  on  the  WTelsh  coast ; 
at  least,  the  Captain  had  said  so. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  questioned 
Mr.  Carlton. 

"  A  little.     What  is  he  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Fishing  and  sporting,  he  says.  He 
does  fish  ;  but  as  to  being  a  sportsman, 
why  he  is  the  greatest  muff  in  the  field 
you  ever  saw.  The  fact  is,  he  is  fonder 
of  indoor  sports  than  outdoor  ones,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Carlton  significantly.  "I 
fancy  he  is  likely  to  become  a  relation  of 
yours." 

"  A  relation  of  mine  !    In  what  way  ?  " 

"Rumor  goes  that  he  will  marry  Mrs. 
Canterbury." 

"Ridiculous!"  involuntarily  burst 
from  Thomas  Kage. 

"  I  suppose  she  does  not  think  so. 
He  is  a  good-looking  man,  very  ;  and  is 
heir  to  a  large  fortune,  they  say." 

"Who  says  it?"  quietiy  asked  Mr. 
Kage. 

"  Who  ?  I  don't  know.  Every- 
body ;  and  he  says  it  himself." 

"  How  has  he  become  intimate  with 
Mrs.  Canterbury  ?  " 

"  Through  living  in  the  neighborhood. 
He  has  been  here  a  long  while  :  ever 
since  Mr.  Canterbury's  death,  it  seems 
to  me." 

"  How  and  where  does  he  live  ? " 
questioned  Mr.  Kage,  who  appeared  to 
be  absorbed,  and  not  pleasantly,  in  what 
he  heard. 

"  Pirst  of  all,  he  was  at  the  inn,  and 
then  he  removed  to  a  little  furnished 
box  there  was  to  let,  and  had  his  sister 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


145 


down.  He  took  it  from  mouth  to 
month  at  starting,  but  now  he  seems  to 
have  it  altogether." 

"  And  is  intimate,  you  say,  at  Mrs. 
Canterbury's  ?  " 

"  Uncommonly  intimate,"  was  the  an- 
swer of  Mr.  Carlton,  who  relished  a  disli 
of  gossip  more  than  anything.  "  Is  at 
the  Rock  every  da}r  of  his  life.  Folks 
say  that  Mrs.  Kage  went  up  there,  and 
took  her  daughter  to  task  about  it ;  but 
Mrs.  Canterbury  is  her  own  mistress, 
and  will  do  as  she  likes." 

"  But  surely  Mrs.  Kage  is  living  at 
the  Rock  ?  " 

"  Not  she." 

"  It  was  decided  that  she  should,  as 
Caro — as  her  daughter  is  so  young." 

"  Ay,  there  was  some  such  arrange- 
ment made,  I  remember.  Mrs.  Kage 
fished  for  it  and  got  it.  But  it  did  not 
last  long, — nobody  thought  it  would, — 
and  she  went  back  to  her  own  home  at 
the  cottage.  Mrs.  Kage  assumed  too 
much  domestic  control,  and  the  young 
mistress  of  the  Rock  would  not  put  up 
with  it.  Mrs.  Canterbury  visits  a  great 
deal,  and  is  extremely  popular  in  the 
county." 

"  In  spite  of  the  unjust  will." 

"  She  and  Mrs.  Kage  got  a  great  deal 
of  blame  at  the  time,  but  people  seem  to 
have  forgotten  it  now." 

"Ay,"  mused  Thomas  Kage,  "time 
is  the  great  obliterator  of  human  actions, 
whether  they  be  evil  or  good." 

He  fell  into  a  reverie  as  he  spoke,  and 
Mr.  Carlton  found  he  had  been  talking  to 
himself;  which  was  what  he  liked.  The 
hint  just  given  troubled  Mr.  Kage,  in 
spite  of  its  ntter  improbability.  Barnaby 
Dawkes  with  his  debts  and  his  ill-living, 
and  sweet  Caroline  Canterbury  with 
her  marvellous  wealth  !  The  thing  was 
utterly  absurd,  painfully  incongruous ; 
but,  nevertheless,  Thomas  Kage  would 
have  given  a  great  deal  to  be  made  sure 
that  nothing  was  in  it,  or  ever  would  be. 

How  was  it,  he  wondered,  that  he  had 
not  heard  until  now  of  this  lengthy  so- 
journ of  the  ex-captain's  at  Chilling? 
His  own  correspondence  with  the  place 
had  been  confined  to  a  few  business  let- 
ters exchanged  with  the  lawyer,  Norris; 
for  Mrs.  Canterbury  seemed  to  have 
taken  umbrage  at  something  or  other  on 
the  day  of  the  funeral,  and  had  never 
written  him  one.  Still,  he  thought  he 
9 


might  have  heard  bits  of  gossip  through 
Sarah  Annesley,  now  Mrs.  Richard 
Dunn.  But  Mrs.  Duun's  chief  friends, 
the  Canterbury  family,  were  all  in  Ger- 
many. Mrs.  Rufort's  health  necessita- 
ted a  change,  her  condition  gave  great 
anxiety  to  her  husband  and  sisters  ;  and 
Mr.  Rufort  got  leave  from  the  bishop  of 
the  diocese  to  substitute  a  clergyman  in 
his  place  for  twelve  months  ;  so  that 
from  them  Sarah  Dunn  could  hear  no 
home  news.  Another  circumstance,  not 
explained  to  Mr.  Kage  until  long  after, 
had  also  tended  to  keep  the  fact  of  Cap- 
tain Dawkes's  residence  there  a  secret 
from  London  ears.  At  first,  he  had  been 
called  Mr.  Barnaby.  That  he  had,  in 
his  desire  for  privacy,  given  this  name, 
was  more  than  probable :  he  said  the 
people  at  the  inn  had  taken  it  up  from 
seeing  it  on  a  letter,  and  assumed  it  to 
be  his  surname.  The  public  called  him 
"Mr.  Barnaby"  still;  and  the  Captain 
made  a  joke  of  the  same  to  the  very  few 
acquaintances  he  made  down  there  ; 
Mrs.  Canterbury,  her  mother,  and  Mr. 
Carlton  nearly  comprising  the  whole. 
At  any  rate,  whatever  might  have  been 
the  inducing  causes,  Mr.  Kage  had 
never  known  or  suspected  that  Captain 
Dawkes  was  at  Chilling.  ISTow  that  he 
knew  it,  his  thoughts  were  busy.  Mr. 
Carlton  talked  on,  and  he  answered  Yes 
and  No  at  random,  as  one  who  hears  not. 

When  they  reached  the  Rock,  Mr. 
Carlton  halted,  and  shouted  for  the  keep- 
er to  open  the  lodge-gates.  She  came 
running  out. 

"  I  will  walk  up  to  the  house,"  said 
Mr.  Kage.  "  I  should  prefer  it,  for  my 
legs  are  cramped.  Thank  you  for 
bringing  me." 

He  took  out  his  portmanteau,  and 
carried  it  inside  the  lodge,  observing 
that  he  would  despatch  a  servant  for  it. 
The  woman  took  it  in  her  hand,  to  test 
its  weight. 

"  It's  not  heavy,  sir.  My  boy  can 
run  up  with  it  at  once." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mr  Kage. 

Close  upon  the  house  he  heard  the 
sound  of  voices  at  some  little  distance, 
and  saw  a  gentleman  playing  with  a 
child  :  now  running  with  him,  now  toss- 
ing him,  now  carrying  him  on  his  shoul- 
der. It  was  growing  dusk,  but  Thomas- 
Kage  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing 
Barnaby  Dawkes  ;    and   the   child  was, 


146 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


beyond  doubt,  the  young  heir  to  the 
Rock. 

Mrs.  Canterbury  was  alone  in  the 
drawing-room  ;  she  had  just  come  down 
attired  for  dinner.  The  article  she  had 
called  a  widow's  cap  was  discarded;  and 
with  the  expiration  of  the  twelvemonth, 
a  few  days  ago,  also  her  heavy  mourn- 
ing. She  wore  a  black -lace  evening 
dress,  with  jet  necklace  and  bracelets, 
and  some  jet  beads  in  her  sunny  and 
luxuriant  hair.  Her  emotion  at  sight 
of  her  visitor  was  vivid,  and  he  could 
not  fail  to  observe  it. 

"  0  Thomas  !  this  is  indeed  unexpect- 
ed." 

"  I  wrote  you  word  last  week  I  should 
be  coming." 

"  But  you  did  not  say  when.  And  I 
never  thought  you  meant  so  soon." 

"  Am  I  too  soon,  Caroline  ?  " 

"  0  no,  no  ;  my  surprise  is  all  gladness. 
Have  you  come  from  London  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  will  answer  as  many  questions  as 
you  like,  when  I  have  taken  off  some  of 
this  travelling  dust ;  but  I  had  better 
do  it  first,  for  it  must  be  close  upon  your 
dinner  hour.  You  will  let  me  stay  for 
that  ?  " 

"  Stay  for  that  !  I  hope  you  have 
come  for  longer  by  a  great  deal.  Re- 
member how  often  you  have  promised 
to  come  to  the  Rock." 

"  I  had  intended  to  stay  one  night  at 
it;  but " 

He  didnot  finish  the  sentence.  Car- 
oline was  looking  at  him  with  her  wide- 
open  blue  eyes  ;  dusk  though  it  was,  he 
could  see  their  depths  of  beauty. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  •'  but,' 
Thomas  ?  " 

"  Well — yes ;  I  will  remain  until  to- 
morrow. How  is  Mrs.  Kage  ?  I  thought 
she  was  living  with  you,  Caroline." 

"  She  comes  in  most  days  to  dinner. 
I  have  long  wanted  to  see  you,  Thomas  ; 
to  thank  y>u  for  acting  for  us  as  exec- 
utor after  all,  in  spite  of  your  scruples." 

A  stange  gravity  came  over  his  face 
with  the  introduction  of  the  subject. 
His  voice  took  a  colder  tone. 

"  If  my  declining  to  act  would  have 
changed  the  provisions  of  the  will,  I 
should  have  declined.  But,  in  striving 
to  perceive  on  which  side  my  duty  lay, 
that  fact,  above  all  others  forced  itself 
upon  my  notice.  The  refusal  would 
have  brought  no  good  to  anyone  ;  only 


some  trouble  on  you  ;  and  so  T  put  aside 
my  personal  feelings,  which  were  all 
against  it,  and  went  on  with  the  task." 

He  quitted  the  room  as  he  spoke,  to 
be  shown  to  the  chamber  assigned  him  ; 
and,  on  descending  again,  found  himself 
in  the  presence  of  both  Mrs.  Kage  and 
Captain  Dawkes.  Dinner  was  an- 
nounced immediately.  Captain  Dawkes 
— we  give  him  the  title  from  habit — was 
advancing  to  Mrs.  Canterbury,  but  Mr. 
Kage  stepped  before  him  quietly,  but 
with  unmistakable  decision.  The  gal- 
lant Captain  fell  behind  to  Mrs.  Kage, 
her  fan,  her  essence-bottles,  and  her 
mincing  affectation. 

Mrs.  Canterbury,  from  the  head  of 
the  table,  asked  Thomas  Kage  to  take 
the  opposite  place.  Captain  Dawkes 
was  on  his  best  behavior,  subdued  and 
gentlemanly.  Mr.  Kage  caught,  at  odd 
moments,  a  glance  of  the  eyes  directed 
surreptitiously  towards  his  quarter,  and 
he  knew  his  appearance  at  Chilling  was 
just  about  as  welcome  to  their  owner  as 
snow  in  harvest. 

"  I  hear  you  have  been  making  a  long 
stay  in  this  neighborhood,  Captain 
Dawkes." 

"  Pretty  well.     I  rather  like  it." 

After  dinner  the  boy  was  brought  in, 
little  Thomas  Canterbury.  He  was  too 
gentle  to  be  what  is  called  a  spoilt  child, 
but  his  mother  seemed  wrapt  in  him. 
Mr.  Dawkes  appeared  equally  fond  ;  he 
took  the  boy  on  his  knee,  fed  him  with 
sweet  things,  kissed  him,  petted  him, 
and  kept  him  there  until  the  ladies  re- 
tired and  carried  him  away  with  them. 
As  Thomas  Kage  returned  to  his  seat 
from  closing  the  door,  the  Captain  took 
a  five-pound  note  from  his  pocket  and 
laid  it  on  the  table. 

"  Kage,  I  owe  you  a  thousand  apolo- 
gies for  not  having  repaid  you  before. 
I  am  so  glad  to  see  you — and  relieve 
myself  of  the  debt." 

"  You  might  have  sent  it,"  observed 
Mr.  Kage. 

'■  I  know  I  might ;  but  negligence  is 
one  of  my  failings.  Thanks  for  the 
loan.  You  never  got  it  repaid  by  that 
ancient  relative  of  mine,  I  suppose  ?"  he 
added,  as  an  after-thought. 

"  I  never  mentioned  the  matter  to 
her." 

"  Keziah  writes  me  word  that  she  is 
only   waiting    my   presence    in   Loudon 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


147 


to  kiss  and  be  friends.  I  thought  she 
would  come-to.  For  the  past  twelve- 
month, you  see,  I  have  got  along  with- 
out asking  help  from  her,  and  that  has 
put  her  in  good-humor." 

"  But  how  have  you  been  able  to  get 
along  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  windfall  from  a  brother- 
officer.  A  fellow  who  owed  me  a  lot  of 
money,  and  came  down  like  a  brick  with 
it.  I  had  given  it  up  for  a  bad  job  ;  but 
he  suddenly  came  into  a  fortune,  and 
paid  up  his  debts." 

This  was  true.  But  Captain  Dawkes 
did  not  think  it  necessary  to  add  that 
the  "  windfall  "  arose  from  a  former  bet 
at  gambling ;  or  that  its  payment  had 
enabled  him  to  make  for  a  time  a  show 
at  Chilling,  and  pass  off  for  a  tolerably 
rich  man  ;  or  that  Keziah's  means  had 
been  sacrificed  bit  by  bit  to  keep  the 
show  up. 

"  Do  you  see  any  signs  of  decay?  " 

"Decay  in  what  ?  "   asked  Mr.  Kage. 

"  In  the  deaf  party.  It's  an  awful 
shame  of  her  to  live  so  long,  keeping  a 
fellow  out  of  his  own  ! " 

"  Are  you  sure  that  Mrs.  Garston's 
death  would  benefit  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  To  the  extent  of  the  greater 
portion  of  her  fortune." 

"  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  Dawkes." 

"No,  I'm  not,"  said  the  Captain, 
smacking  his  lips  as  he  put  down  his 
glass.  "  Capital  wine,  this  of  old  Can- 
terbury's !  You  don't  seem  to  appre- 
ciate it,  Kage." 

"  A  short  while  ago,  Mrs.  Garston  be- 
gan talking  to  me  about  her  will,"  re- 
sumed Mr.  Kage,  passing  over  in  silence 
the  remark  on  the  wine.  "  I  did  not 
ask  her  for  it :  I  did  not  care  to  hear 
about  it,  for  it  was  nothing  to  me.  But 
she  then  said,  as  solemnly  as  it  is  well 
possible  for  a  woman  to  speak,  that  you 
would  not  inherit  her  money.  If  I  tell 
you  this,  Dawkes,  it  is  in  kindness  — 
that  you  may  not  deceive  youself  with 
false  hopes." 

"Perhaps  you  imagine  that  you  will 
inherit  it,"  rejoined  the  Captain  with  a 
scarcely-suppressed  sneer. 

"I  am  sure  that  1  shall  not,"  was  the 
quiet  answer.  "  Mrs.  Garston  will  be- 
queath her  money  without  reference  to 
me.  Bel}T  upon  one  thing,  however, 
Dawkes  :  that  you  will  not  have  it  any 


more  than  I  shall.  Were  I  not  per- 
suaded of  the  positive  truth  of  this,  I 
would  not  have  mentioned  it  to  you." 

"  Were  I  not  persuaded  of  the  posi- 
tive truth  that  I  shall  have  it,  I 
should  not  be  living  at  ray  ease  as  I 
am,"  was  the  retort.  "  She  may  have 
changed  her  mind  since  telling  you  this, 
or  perhaps  only  said  it  in  momentary 
pique  :  but  I  do  know  for  a  certainty, 
through  Keziah,  that  Mrs.  Garston  will 
do  right,  and  make  me  her  heir." 

The  assertion  was  utterly  devoid  of 
truth,  though  the  Captain's  bold  face 
was  a  marvel  of  candor  as  he  delivered 
it.  The  fact  was,  it  suited  him  to  pass 
off  at  Chilling  for  a  man  whose  large 
expectations  could  not  be  imperiled. 
Mr.  Kage  silently  supposed  there  might 
be  some  inadvertent  misconception  on 
Keziah's  part,  or  that  her  hopes  de- 
ceived her. 

"  You  do  not  ask  after  your  little 
friend,  Belle  Annesley,  Dawkes." 

"  Hope  she's  well,"  was  the  careless 
comment.  "  Had  nearly  forgotten  her. 
Nice  little  girl  enough  :  wonder  when 
she's  going  to  get  married." 

It  was  not  Thomas  Kage's  province 
to  tell  Captain  Dawkes  he  ought  to  be 
the  bridegroom.  In  point  of  fact,  he 
did  not  know  how  much  or  how  little 
had  passed  between  the  two.  Belle 
might  have  given  her  heart  without  due 
inducement ;  a  not  entirely  uncommon 
case. 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  very  nice  girl,"  he 
said  warmly.  "  Something  seems  to  ail 
her,  Dawkes.  All  her  childish  ways  are 
put  aside  ;  and  she  is  as  staid  as  she 
was  once  light- mannered.  Sad,  in 
fact." 

"  Sad,  is  she  ?  It's  through  living 
with  that  wearying  old  mother.  How's 
town  looking  ?  "  he  added,  deliberate!}' 
passing  off  the  subject.  And  Mr.  Kage 
was  content  to  let  it  pass.  They  rose 
from  table  together,  and  went  into  the 
drawing-room. 

"  It  was  not  altogether  a  merry  even- 
ing. Thomas  Kage  was  silent  and 
thoughtful;  the  ex -captain  like  one 
under  some  constraint ;  Mrs.  Kage  shot 
keen  glances,  and  not  always  pleasant 
ones,  at  the  assemblage  generally,  from 
over  the  top  of  her  smelling-salts.  Call- 
ing Thomas  to  her,  she  made  room  for 


118 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


him  on  the  sofa  near  the  fire.  A  large 
one  was  kept  up  every  night  that  Mrs. 
Kage  was  there. 

"  You  have  not  told  me  how  I  am 
looking,"  she  said,  tapping  him  play- 
fully with  her  fan. 

Had  Thomas  Kage  told,  and  truly,  he 
would  have  said,  very  ill.  Of  all  bat- 
tered, worn-out  old  creatures,  the  late 
Lord  Gunse's  daughter  was  the  worst. 
Her  head  nodded  involuntarily.  Mrs. 
Garstou,  over  twenty  years  her  senior, 
looked  younger.  In  this  past  }"ear  she 
seemed  to  have  aged  ten. 

'•  I  hope  you  feel  well,  Mrs.  Kage," 
was  all  he  could  bring  himself  to  say  to 
the  appeal. 

"  Perfectly  charming.  Don't  I  look 
so  ?  When  Fry  settled  this  white 
feather  in  to-day," — pointing  to  the  top 
of  her  withered  old  head, — "  she  saidtit 
became  me  in  a  wonderful  manner,  mak- 
ing quite  a  girl  of  me.  Some  of  us 
never  grow  old,  you  know. — Thomas, 
I  don't  like  that  man." 

The  transition  rather  startled  him. 
Her  simpering  face  of  affectation  had 
changed  to  a  sharp  one,  her  self-suffi- 
cient voice  to  a  dissatisfied  whisper  be- 
hind her  fan  ;  her  eyes  cast  forth  gleams 
of  rage  at  Captain  Dawkes,.  who  stood 
for  the  moment  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  with  his  back  to  them. 

"He  makes  himself  too  much  at 
home  here.  I  tell  Caroline  so,  but  she 
does  not  see  it.  Sometimes  I  think  he 
must  have  designs  on  Caroline  and  her 
money.  And  that,  you  know,  dear 
Thomas,  would  be  undesirable." 

"  Entirely  so." 

"  I  wish  he'd  go  away,  and  leave  the 
place.  He  doesn't  like  me,  and  I 
don't  like  him.  He  is  heir  to  Mrs. 
Garston's  great  wealth,  poor  deaf  old 
object! — but  still  I  don't  like  the  impo- 
lite man.     Do  you  know  much  of  him  ?  " 

Certainly  Thomas  Kage  did  not  know 
much  good  of  him,  had  he  chosen  to 
say  so. 

"  I  took  a  dislike  to  his  rolling  black 
eyes  ;  it  was  the  first  day,  when  he  as 
good  as  told  me  I'd  got  paint  on.  I  do 
assure  you,  Thomas,  my  complexion  is 
sweetly  natural." 

Thomas  Kage  bit  his  lip  to  hide  a 
smile,  and  the  tetc-a-tete  was  broken  by 
the  gallant  Captain  himself,  who  came 
up  too  near  to  be  talked  of. 


Both  the  guests  left  early.  Late 
hours  were  getting  to  be  barred  luxuries 
to  Mrs.  Kage;  and,  the  Captain  gave 
her  his  arm  to  the  little  close  carriage 
that  brought  and  took  her,  taking  his 
own  departure  at  the  same  time.  It 
was  scarcely  ten  o'clock  when  Mrs. 
Canterbury  and  her  cousin  were  left 
alone.  She  caused  the  chess-table  to  be 
brought  forward,  and  set  out  the  men. 

"  You  will  play,  Thomas,  will  you 
not  ?  " 

He  drew  his  chair  up,  and  they 
commenced  the  game.  In  five  minutes 
Mrs.  Canterbury  had  checkmated  him. 
Then  he  began  to  put  the  pieces  up. 

"  But  will  you  not  play  again  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Not  to-night.  My  thoughts  are 
elsewhere." 

He  finished  his  employment,  pushed 
the  table  back,  and  dropped  into  a  mus- 
ing attitude,  his  elbow  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair.  Mrs.  Canterbury  glanced  at 
him  as  she  played  with  the  trinkets  that 
were  hanging  from  her  chain.  Her 
own  spirits  throughout  the  night  had 
been  gleefully  high. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  Thomas  ? 
You  have  been  as  solemn  as  a  judge  all 
the  evening.''' 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  are  likely  to 
marry  Dawkes  ? "  was  his  abrupt  re- 
joinder. 

"  My  goodness !  what  put  that  in 
your  head  ?  " 

"  Is  it  true,  Caroline  ?  "  he  more  sad- 
ly repeated. 

"No,  it  is  not  true,"  she  emphatically 
said.  "  How  came  you  to  think  of  such 
a  thing  ?  " 

"  A  hint  of  it  was  whispered  to  me 
since  I  came  down  here." 

"  0,  then,  I  know — it  was  by  mamma," 
she  slightingly  said,  her  lip  curling. 

"  No,  Caroline.  It  was  by  a  stran- 
ger." 

"  I  am  surprised  at  your  taking  it  up 
seriously,  Thomas  :  there's  not  a  shade 
of  truth  in  it.  But  why  cannot  people 
keep  their  mischief- making  tongues 
within  due  bounds  ?" 

"  It  was  not  prudent,  Caroline,  to 
allow  a  man,  of  whom  you  know  noth- 
ing, to  become  so  intimate  here.  In  the 
first  place,  you  are  too  young  for  it." 

"  No,  not  too  young  in  position.  I 
am  mistress  of  the  Rock,  and  a  widow  ; 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


149 


I  have  a  child  of  three  years  old.  You 
were  always  tiltra-crotehety.  Thomas." 

"  Let  me  tell  you  a  little  of  what  I 
know  of  Dawkes,"  was  his  calm  re- 
joinder. "  He  has  heen  a  wild  gay 
man  ;  up  to  his  ears  in  debt  and  em- 
barrassment ;  has  lived  in  little  else  for 
years  past.  Mrs.  Garston  has  come  to 
his  relief  on  occasion,  but  it  has  not 
seemed  to  serve  him  much.  When  he 
came  to  this  neighborhood  it  was  to  be 
safe  from  his  creditors." 

"  Few  men  have  been  exempt  from  em- 
barrassment at  some  time  or  other  of 
their  lives,"  observed  Mrs.  Canterbury. 
"  Captain  Dawkes's  having  been  in  debt 
ought  not  to  tell  against  him,  now  he  is 
free  from  it." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  is  free  from 
it?" 

"  Of  course  he  is.  He  lives  here  open- 
ly, and  seems  to  have  plenty  of  money." 

"  He  may  have  paid  his  debts  in  part ; 
he  may  have  some  ready-money  to  go  on 
with  ;  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  not  so,  and 
you  do  not  know  that  it  is.  But  I  do  know 
that  plenty  of  money  he  cannot  have.  It 
is  only  a  very  short  while  ago  that  his  sis- 
ter Keziah — I  mention  this  in  strict  con- 
fidence, Caroline — applied  to  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton  for  help  for  him." 

"  And  if  she  did — it  would  be  like  ask- 
ing for  his  own.  He  will  inherit  Mrs. 
Garston's  large  fortune." 

In  the  most  earnest  words  he  could  use, 
Thomas  Kage  assured  Mrs.  Canterbury 
that  Captain  Dawkes  would  not  inherit 
it;  that  his  own  expectation  on  the  point 
would  inevitably  prove  a  fallacy.  Know- 
ing the  old  lady  so  thoroughly,  he  was 
convinced,  beyond  danger  of  mistake, 
that  Captain  Dawkes  would  never  be  her 
heir  after  the  words  she  had  spoken,  and 
he  deemed  himself  justified  in  saying  as 
much  to  Mrs.  Canterbury. 

"  I'm  sure  he  may  be  cut  off  with  a 
shilling  for  aught  I  care,"  was  Mrs.  Can- 
terbury's answer.  "Captain  Dawkes  and 
his  prospects  are  nothing  to  me,  Thom- 
as." 

"  I  thought  it  strange  if  he  could  be. 
But  reflect  for  one  moment,  Caroline — 
to  such  a  man  as  this,  with  his,  at  best, 
uncertain  future,  what  a  temptation  a 
fortune  like  yours  must  hold  out ! 
The—" 

"  What  a  shame  it  is  people  can't  mind 
their  own  business  !  "  interrupted  Mrs. 


Canterbury.  "  They  interfere  with  me 
in  the  most  unwarrantable  manner ;  they 
say  I  visit  too  much,  and  they  say  I  left 
off  my  ugly  widow's  caps  too  soon — I 
wore  them  nearly  twelve  months,  and 
they  were  spoiling  my  hair.  And  now 
they  have  been  talking  to  you  about  Cap- 
tain Dawkes." 

"  I  was  about  to  observe  that  the 
tastes  and  pursuits  of  Captain  Dawkes 
— I  have  seen  something  of  them — are 
not  calculated  to  bring  happiness  to  a 
wife,  Caroline." 

She  smiled  ;  a  bright  laughing  smile. 
Mr.  Kage  was  vexed ;  he  thought  it  a 
derisive  one. 

"  Caroline,  I  speak  for  }'our  sake  only 
— for  your  happiness." 

"  Then  you  really  do  care  for  my  hap- 
piness ?  " 

"  I  have  never  cared  for  anyone's  so 
much  in  my  life.  You  knew  it  once, 
Caroline." 

Mrs.  Canterbury  had  risen  to  stand  on 
the  hearth-rug  before  the  large  pier-glass, 
and  the  red  glow  of  the  fire  deepened  to 
crimson  the  blushes  on  her  cheeks.  Or 
had  they  deepened  of  themselves  ?  any- 
way, they  were  rich  and  beautiful. 
Thomas  Kage  thought  so  as  he  stood 
near  to  her  ;  far  too  innocent  and  beauti- 
ful to  be  thrown  away  on  Barnaby 
Dawkes. 

"  I  thought  it  once,"  she  hesitatingly 
said,  "  until — " 

"Until  when?" 

"  Until  I  married.  But  it  was  all  over 
then." 

"  Not  so  ;  I  am  anxious  for  your  hap- 
piness still,  and  I  wish  you  would  let  me 
try  and  guide  you  to  it." 

"  How  would  you  begin  ?"  she  mer- 
rily  said. 

"  First  of  all,  you  should  break  off  the 
intimacy  with  Dawkes — How  was  it 
brought  about  ?  "  he  interrupted  himself 
to  ask. 

"  It  began  by  his  taking  a  fancy  for 
my  boy.  He  made  acquaintance  with 
him  and  his  nurse  iD  their  walks,  and 
the  child  grew  so  attached  to  him,  noth- 
ing was  ever  like  it.  How  could  I  help 
being  civil  to  one  who  is  so  fond  of  my 
child  ?  " 

"  Let  there  be  truth  between  us,  Car- 
oline," he  interrupted  in  a  pained  tone. 

"  I  am  telling  you  truth  ;  I  will  tell 
you    all.     I    care    nothing    for    Captain 


150 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


Dawkes,  and  I  only  like  him  because  lie 
loves  the  boy.  But  he  has  grown  to  like 
me  in  a  different  way,"  she  added  ;  "  and 
last  week  he  asked  me  to  become  his 
wife." 

"  What  was  your  answer  ?  " 

"  My  answer  !  It  was  such  that  I  do 
not  think  Captain  Dawkes  will  ever  ven- 
ture to  speak  to  me  in  that  manner  again. 
He  begged  my  pardon  humbly  for  his 
mistake.  'It  was  then  that  he  told  me 
— but  I  had  heard  him  say  it  before — 
that  he  would  to  a  certainty  inherit  Mrs. 
Garston's  fortune." 

"This  having  been  your  answer,  how 
is  it  that  he  is  still  intimate  here  ?  " 

"  He  begged  me  to  bury  what  had 
passed  in  oblivion,  to  pardon  him  for  it, 
to  let  it  die  out  of  my  remembrance  as  a 
thing  that  never  had  place,  and  to  allow 
him  to  continue  his  friendship  with  the 
Rock.  It  would  grieve  him  painfully, 
almost  kill  him,  to  part  with  the  boy,  he 
said.  I  told  him  it  was  so  entirely  a  mat- 
ter of  indifference  to  me,  that  he  might 
continue  to  come  here  on  occasion  if  he 
chose." 

"  Then  you  do  *not  love  him,  Caro- 
line ?  " 

u  No ;  it  is  not  to  him  that  my  love  is 
given." 

"  That  tone,  Caroline,  would  almost 
imply  that  it  is  given  elsewhere.  Is  it 
so  ?  ;' 

She  had  spoken  incautiously  ;  and  the 
flush  of  crimson  rising  in  her  face  was  so 
vivid  that  she  turned  it  from  him. 
Thomas  Kage  took  her  hand  and  held  it 
between  his. 

"  Would  you  have  me  go  through  life 
alone  ?  "  she  sadly  asked.  "  Why  should 
I  not  marry  again  ?  Some  mothers  call 
girls  at  my  age  too  young  for  wives.  I 
am  not  three-and-twenty." 

"My  dear,  I  hope  you  will  many 
again  ;  my  only  anxiety  is  that  you 
should  marry  for  happiness.  What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

Mrs.  Canterbury  had  burst  into  tears. 

"  It  is  such  a  lonely  life,"  she  whis- 
pered ;  "  it  has  been  so  lonely  all  along. 
I  married, — you  know  about  it,  that  I  did 
not  care  for  him, — and  I  found  I  had 
grasped  the  shadow  and  lost  the  sub- 
stance. I  tried  to  carry  it  off  to  others 
and  be  gay  ;  but  there  was  the  aching 
void  ever  in  my  heart.  Since  I  have  been 
free,  it  has  been  the  same  :  no  real  hap- 


piness :  nothing  but  a  yearning  after 
what  I  have  not.  Sometimes  hope 
springs  up  and  pictures  a  bright  future  ; 
but  it  flies  away  again.  I  have  never," 
she  continued,  raising  her  ej'es  for  a  mo- 
ment, "  breathed  aught  of  these  my  feel- 
ings to  man  or  woman  :  I  -could  not  to 
anj'one  but  you." 

"Caroline,  you  are  indulging  a  love- 
dream  !     Who  is  its  object  ?  " 

She  was  trembling  excessively :  he 
could  feel  that,  as  he  held  her  hand,  which 
she  had  not  attempted  to  remove. 
Alone  with  him  in  that"  quiet  evening 
hour,  her  heart  full  of  romance  and  sen- 
timent, Caroline  Canterbury  may  be  for- 
given if  she  betrayed  herself.  Though 
she  had  heartlessly  rejected  Thomas 
Kage  to  marry  a  rich  man,  she  had  loved 
him  passionately  then,  and  she  loved  him 
passionately  still. 

"  Who  is  it,  Caroline  ?  " 

"  Do  not  ask  me." 

«  Who  is  it,  Caroline  ?  " 

•'  Need  you  ask  me  ?  " 

No,  he  need  not ;  for  in  that  same 
moment  the  scales  fell  from  his  own  eyes. 
Her  agitated  tone,  her  downcast  look,  told 
him  what  he  had  certainly  not  had  his 
thoughts  pointed  to.  He  dropped  her 
hand,  and  went  and  leaned  his  own 
elbow  on  the  mantlepiece,  with  a  flush  as 
rosy  as  hers. 

Thomas  Kage  was  no  coxcomb — never 
a  truer-hearted  man  than  he  in  tho  world. 
His  first  feeling  was  surprise  ;  his  second 
self-blame  for  having  himself  provoked 
the  avowal.  But  that  Caroline  Canter- 
bury should  love  him  still,  after  her  delib- 
erate rejection  of  him  to  marry  another, 
after  all  these  lapse  of  years,  and  the 
time  she  was  a  wife,  never  once  entered 
into  his  mind.  Rather  would  he  have 
expected  her  to  avow  a  love  for  the  great- 
est stranger — for  this  man  Dawkes,  even 
— than  for  him. 

"  Caroline,"  he  whispered,  breaking 
a  long  silence,  "  was  this  your  dream  ?  " 

Vexed  at  having  betrayed  so  much, 
her  sobs  increased  hysterically.  He 
waited  until  she  grew  calm.  "  It  cannot 
be,"  he  continued  in  agitation.  "  Wheth- 
er it  might  have  been,  whether  the  old 
feelings  might  have  been  renewed  be- 
tween us,  I  have  never  allowed  myself  to 
ask.     There  is  an  insuperable  barrier." 

"  In  my  having  left  you  to  marry  Mr. 
Canterbury  ?  " 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL. 


151 


"  Mr.  Canterbury  is  gone  and  has  left 
vou  free.  The  barrier  lies  in  his  unjust 
will." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  faint- 
ly said. 

Thought  after  thought  came  chasing 
each  other  through  his  mind  :  some  of 
them  Utopian,  perhaps  ;  but,  as  she  used 
herself  to  tell  him,  that  was  in  his  na- 
ture. 

"  Our  former  attachment  was  known 
to  some  people — or,  at  least,  suspected," 
he  remarked  in  a  low  tone.  "  Were  I 
to  make  you  my  wife  now.  who  but  would 
say  that  will  was  a  work  of  complicity 
planned  between  us  ? — the  money  be- 
queathed to  you,  and  I  the  executor  ! 
Caroline,  were  you  as  dear  to  me  as  for- 
merly, as  perhaps  you  might  become 
again,  I  would  die  of  heart-break  rather 
than  marry  your  money,  and  so  sacrifice 
my  good  name." 

Her  face  and  lips  had  turned  of  a 
stony  white  ;  her  heart  felt  turning  to 
stone  within  her.     Mr.  Kage  resumed : 

"  In  my  mind  there  has  always  been 
a  kind  of  fear  connected  with  the  will. 
"When  it  flashes  into  my  memory  sud- 
denly, as  events  will  so  flash,  I  seem  to 
shrink  with  dread.  It  is  a  strange  feel- 
ing ;  one  that  I  have  never  been  able  to 
account  for.  Caroline,  rather  than  be 
connected  with  that  will,  in  the  way  of 
benefit  to  myself,  I  would  fly  the  king- 
dom." 

She  had  turned  her  face  to  look  at 
him  :  it  expressed  a  kind  of  puzzled 
wonder. 

"  Yes,  I  see  how  inexplicable  this  must 
sound  to  you.  But  the  aversion  to  the 
will,  the  dread  of  it,  lies  sure  and  fast 
within  me.  Mr.  Canterbury  bequeathed 
me,  as  you  may  be  aware,  one  hundred 
pounds  for  my  trouble  as  executor. 
What  little  expense  it  entailed  upon  me, 
I  honestly  repaid  myself;  and  the  rest 
of  the  sum  I  have  sent  to  one  of  our 
most  necessitous  hospitals.  I  only  men- 
tion this  to  prove  to  you  how  impossible 
it  is  that  I  could,  under  any  circumstan- 
ces, consent  to  reap  benefit  from  that 
unjust  will." 

"  Answer  me  one  thing,"  she  rejoined 
in  agitation.  "  When  you  urged  me  so 
strongly  to  induce  Mr.  Canterbury  to 
make  a  more  equitable  will,  was  this — 
this — in  your  thoughts  ? — that  perhaps, 
sometime,  as — as  he  was  an  old  man, 


and  I  almost  sure  to  be  left  free  when 
still  young — that  this  question  of  to- 
night might  arise  between  us?" 

"  No,"  he  earnestly  answered,  "  I 
spoke  alone  in  the  interests  of  justice.  I 
wished  you  to  be  just  in  the  eyes  of  men  ; 
to  endeavor  to  be  so  in  the  sight  of  God. 
From  the  day  of  your  marriage  with  Mr. 
Canterbury,  I  have  never  thought  of  you 
but  as  lost  to  me  ;  and  I  schooled  my 
heart  to  bear." 

Recollection,  remorse,  grief,  were 
telling  upon  her.  She  shook  as  she 
stood,  and  turned  to  lay  hold  of  some- 
thing by  which  to  steady  herself.  He 
could  but  walk  across  the  rug  to  support 
her.  But  it  was  done  without  the  small- 
est tenderness. 

"  I  suffered  then  as  you  are  suffering 
now,"  he  whispered. 

"  Let  me  make  it  up  to  you,"  she  re- 
turned, heeding  little  what  she  said  in 
her  despair — "let  us  make  it  up  to  each 
other.  You  do  care  for  me  still — I  have 
riches,  I  have  my  love.  0  Thomas,  let 
me  make  it  up  to  you  !" 

"Don't  you  see  it  is  those  riches  that 
make  it  impossible  ?  Caroline,  do  not 
tempt  me;  it  can  never  be." 

"  I  will  give  up  my  riches  and  think 
it  no  sacrifice." 

"  You  cannot  give  them  up.  The 
greater  portion  are  held  in  trust  for  your 
son. 

Yes,  she  saw  it ;  quitting  his  side  to 
lean  against  the  mantel-piece,  she  sa  it. 
The  riches  must  cling  to  her  like  some 
foul  thing  that  could  never  be  shaken 
off.  The  gold,  so  coveted  and  deceitfully 
planned  for,  was  already  turning  to  bit- 
terness in  her  mouth,  like  the  apples  of 
Sodom. 

"  Then  you  reject  me,"  she  faintly 
said. 

"  As  a  wife  ;  I  have  no  other  alterna- 
tive. But,  Caroline,  we  can  be  dear  to 
each  other  still — as  brother  and  sister." 
"  Brother  and  sister  !  brother  and  sis- 
ter !  "  she  wailed.  "  That  is  not  a  tie 
to  satisfy  the  void  of  an  aching  heart." 

"  Caroline,  mj'  darling  sister,  you 
must  school  your  heart,"  he  urged  in 
his  faithfulness.  "1  had  to  do  it.  I 
have  to  do  it  still.  Why  !  do  you  think 
this,  now  passing  between  us,  is  not 
bringing  me  the  most  exquisite  pain  ?  " 
he  broke  off,  giving  way  for  a  single 
moment  to  his  emotion.     "  But  for  the 


152 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


harrier  that  Fate  has  raised  up  around 
you,  I  should  take  yoxi  to  my  breast  with 
rapture,  now  as  we  stand  here,  thanking 
God  that  sunshine  had  come  into  mj7 
life  at  last.  It  has  been  cold  and  bleak 
enough  without  you,  all  these  years." 

The  jet  necklace  on  her  white  neck 
heaved  and  fell.  But  for  the  utmost 
control,  but  for  the  reticence  of  action 
that  never  forsakes  a  modest,  right-mind- 
ed woman,  she  had  fallen  on  his  breast 
then. 

"  As  brother  and  sister,"  repeated  Mr. 
Kage,  retaining  his  distance  ;  but  he  was 
quite  sure  of  himself.  "Any  warmer 
feeling,  any  more  sacred  tie.  between  us 
is  impossible.  Be  composed,  Caroline  ; 
be  yourself." 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  myself,"  she  answered, 
pride  coming  to  her  aid.  "  Farewell, 
Thomas." 

She  was  walking  rapidly  to  the  door 
to  seek  her  chamber.  Thomas  Kage 
opened  it  fur  her,  and  held  out  his  hand 
as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

"  Good-night,  Caroline.  To-morrow 
we  will  meet  as  usual,  and  forget  all 
this.  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  very 
soon  after  breakfast." 

In  attempting  to  return  his  good- 
night a  smothered  sob  of  anguish  escap- 
ed her.  His  own  heart  echoed  it  as  he 
closed  the  door  and  went  back  to  the  fire 
for  some  few  minutes.  The  rejection  he 
had  had  to  give  was  as  painful  as  any 
ever  spoken  by  man. 

And  poor  Mrs.  Canterbury  ?  As  she 
tossed  on  her  sleepless  pillow,  recognis- 
ing at  last  the  upright  worth,  the  value 
of  the  man  she  had  once  rejected,  retri- 
bution seemed  to  have  laid  hold  of  her 
with  its  piercing  fangs.  Throughout 
the  whole  of  the  live-long  night  she  be- 
wailed the  possession  of  the  vast  riches 
that  were  not  justly  hers.  Fatal, 
worthless,  molten  riches ;  as  they  seem- 
ed to  be  in  her  ejTes  now.  The}7  had 
brought  the  reproach  of  the  world  in 
their  train  ;  they  had  heaped  this  present 
misery  and  mortification  on  her  head  ; 
they  had  thrown  up  an  impassable  gulf 
against  him  who  had  alone  made  her 
day-dream. 

Pretty  well,  all  this.  But  Mrs.  Can- 
terbury—  looking  upon  them  in  that 
bitter  moment  as  a  sort  of  evil  gift,  a 
fatality — caught  herself  wondering  what 
else  of  ill  they  might  bring  in  the  fu- 
ture. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

CAPTAIN    DAWKES    IN    TOWN. 

Face  to  face  with  each  other — she 
bolt  upright  in  her  richest  brocaded  silk, 
on  the  stiffest  of  her  drawing-room 
sofas,  he  tilted  forward  from  a  small 
chair — sat  Mrs.  Garston  and  Captain 
Dawkes.  Their  faces  nearly  met.  It 
was  a  momentous  interview  ;  and  the 
Captain  always  had  the  idea  that  she 
could  not  hear  one  word  in  ten  unless 
he  were  within  an  inch  of  her. 

The  year  had  grown  older  by  a  week 
only  since  Thomas  Kage's  visit  to  Chill- 
ing. Captain  Dawkes,  weighing  plans 
and  projects,  ways  and  means,  had  at 
length  brought  himself  to  town,  braving 
the  danger  that  might  accrue  if  his 
creditors  caught  sight  of  him.  But  he 
had  learnt  caution  of  old. 

His  large  dark  eyes  wore  a  gloomy 
light  as  they  gazed  into  the  cold  gray 
ones  of  Mrs.  Garston.  She  had  been 
telling  him,  in  terms  not  to  be  misun- 
derstood, that  the  inheritor  of  her 
money  would  not  be  himself. 

"  You  never  ought  to  have  looked  for 
it,  Barby  Dawkes  ;  never.  But  I  don't 
blame  you  for  doing  so,  so  much  as  I  do 
those  who  flattered  you  up  that  it  would 
be  yours.  Keziah,  to  wit.  I  told  her, 
when  she  was  last  here  bothering  me, 
that  if  you'd  come  and  see  me  you 
should  hear  what  I  would  and  would 
not  do." 

"  And  I  have  come,  ma'am." 

"You've  took  your  time  about  it," 
was  the  old  lady's  retort.  "  But  that 
was  your  business,  not  mine.  And  now 
I  will  fulfil  my  part  of  the  bargain. 
First  of  all,  though — is  it  true  what 
Keziah  tells  me  :  that  she  has  sunk 
some  of  her  small  capital  for  you  ?  " 

"  That  is  true." 

"  And  more  shame  for  you  to  let  it 
be  true,  Barnaby  Dawkes  !  What  ? — 
no  other  means?  Most  men  would 
have  gone  and  broke  stones  in  the  road 
before  they'd  have  robbed  a  sister." 

"  I  live  in  hopes  to  repay  her,"  said 
Barnal>3\ 

"  Do  you  !  "  spoke  Mrs.  Garston  with 
iron}'.  "  What  do  you  suppose  Keziah 
said  to  me  the  other  da\T  ?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine.  She  says  queer 
things  on  occasion." 

"  That  if  you  were  a  married  man 
you  would  be  as  steady  as  old  Time." 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


153 


"  And  so  I  should  be,"  rejoined  Bar- 
naby eagerly.  "  I  should  be  as  steady 
and  saving  as  you  are.  Aunt  Garston." 

She  did  not  speak  at  once.  Her 
bright  gray  eyes  were  gazing  into  his, 
as  though  she  sought  to  know  whether 
trust  might  be  placed  in  his  words. 

"  If  I  were  fortunate  enough  to  get 
married — that  is,  if  my  circumstances 
allowed  me  to  do  so — it  would  be  the 
turning-point  in  my  life,"  he  impres- 
sively said.     "  My  future  safeguard." 

"  Barnaby  Dawkes,  I  think  it  might 
be." 

To  hear  even  this  concession  from  one 
who  never  spoke  of  him,  or  to  him,  but 
in  terms  of  the  most  utter  disparage- 
ment, rather  surprised  the  Captain,  and 
very  much  gratified  him. 

"  It  is  true,  Aunt  Garston,  on  my 
honor.  Let  me  get  the  chance  of  be- 
coming a  married  man,  and  you  would 
see  how  good  a  member  of  society  I 
should  make.  You  might  safely  leave 
your  fortune  to  me  then,  without  fear 
that  it  would  ever  be  wasted." 

"  What  do  you  say  ? "  she  asked, 
bending  her  best  ear.  And  Captain 
Dawkes  repeated  his  words. 

"  Listen,  Barnaby.  I  told  you  just 
now,  as  plain  as  I  could  speak,  that  the 
bulk  of  my  fortune  would  not  go  to  you. 
Take  you  heed  of  that  once  for  all :  it 
never  will.  W'hen  my  will  is  opened, 
after  my  death,  you  will  find  two  hun- 
dred pounds  a-year  secured  to  you  ;  and, 
besides  that,  a  sum  of  five  hundred 
pounds  down,  which  you  may  use  to 
pay  j'our  debts  with." 

If  ever  a  blank  look  settled  on  man's 
face,  it  did  on  that  of  Captain  Dawkes. 

"  You  cannot  mean  it,  Mrs.  Garston," 
he  said  after  a  pause. 

"  It  is  all  you  will  inherit  from  me, 
Barnaby,"  was  the  cold  resolute  rejoin- 
der. "  I  shall  never  make  it  another 
shilling — except  on  one  condition. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  gloomily  asked. 

"  That  you  marry.  Now  don't  you 
mistake  me,  and  think  I  want  to  urge 
you  into  marriage,"  added  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton, rapping  with  her  stick  violently  ; 
"  I'd  be  sorry  to  do  it  \>y  the  person 
dearest  aud  nearest  to  me  in  the  world. 
People  should  look  out  for  themselves  in 
such  serious  matters,  and  then  nobody 
else  is  responsible  for  consequences." 

"  The  devil  take  Keziah  ! "    was  the 


Captain's  mental  comment.  "  She  must 
have  been  letting  loose  that  tongue  of 
hers." 

"  You  fell  in  love  with  a  girl  in  Lon- 
don, Barnaby  ;  made  love  to  her,  that 
is.  Considering  that  you  are  worthless 
in  conduct,  and  hampered  by  debt,  it 
was  three-parts  a  swindle  to  have  done 
it." 

"  But  I — don't  know  what  you  mean, 
ma'am,"  replied  the  surprised  Captain. 
"  How  came  you  to  hear  such  a  thing 
of  me  ?  It  has  no  foundation  what- 
ever." 

"  How  I  came  to  hear  it  is  nothing  to 
you.  Perhaps  I  saw  it  for  myself.  I 
can  see  one  thing,  Barby  Dawkes — that 
the  foolish  child  is  pining  her  heart 
VL\\a.y  for  you." 

"  But — who  is  it,  Aunt  Garston  ?  " 

He  knew  quite  well,  and  there  was 
an  untrue  ring  in  his  voice  as  he  asked 
it.  Down  came  Mrs.  Garston's  stick, 
ominously  near  his  foot. 

"  It  is  Belle  Annesley.  How  dare 
you  pretend  ignorance  to  me,  sir  !  Do 
you  suppose  it  will  serve  you  ?  " 

His  face  grew  a  little  hot.  He 
would  not  acknowledge  to  this  ;  he 
might  not  venture,  in  the  teeth  of  her 
inconsistency,  to  deny  it.  "  It  was 
quite  a  mistake,"  he  lamely  muttered  ; 
"  quite  a  mistake." 

"  If  it's  the  want  of  money  that 
keeps  you  from  marrying  her,  I'll  rem- 
edy the  bar."  said  Mrs.  Garston  "  She 
will  inherit  three  hundred  a-year  from 
her  mother ;  I'll  settle  on  you  both 
jointly,  and  your  children  after  you, 
seven  hundred  more  ;  which  will  be  an 
annual  income  of  one  thousand  pounds. 
If  you  can't  think  that  enough,  you  de- 
serve to  die  in  the  work-house.  Over 
and  above,  I  will  pay  your  debts,  Bar- 
by,  on  the  wedding-day." 

Some  twelve  months  before,  Barby 
Dawkes  would  have  leaped  at  this  offer 
as  a  boon.  Now,  in  the  teeth  of  greater 
and  grander  visions,  it  only  perplexed 
him.     He  stroked  his  purple  moustache. 

"  But — suppose,  Aunt  Garston,  that  I 
were  to  decline  the  marriage ;  that  I 
were — in  short — to  find  it  would  not  suit 
either  myself  or  the  }'oung  lady — what 
then  ?  " 

"  What  then  ?  Nothing.  1  don't  urge 
it;  I've  said  so.  If  a  word  from  me 
would    marry    the    pair  of  you,  I'd  not 


154 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


speak  it.  The  decision  lies  with  you  and 
her.  But  if  you  are  both  set  on  it,  and 
you  intend  to  be  what  you  ought  to  be 
to  her,  you  shall  not  be  hindered  for 
want  of  means." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  muttered  Bar- 
naby.  "  What  I  wished  to  ask  was — 
about  monej'-matters  in  regard  to  my- 
self, if  I  don't  marry  her." 

"  Were  you  deaf  ?  "  roared  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  that,  not  mar- 
ried, you'd  get  two  hundred  a-year  at  my 
death  ?  Where's  the  use  of  my  repeat- 
ing things  ?  " 

"  And — until  your  death  ?  "  he  ven- 
tured to  urge.  "  I  am  in  embarrass- 
ment now." 

"  Until  my  death  I'll  allow  you  one 
hundred  a-year,  Barnaby  Dawkes.  Not 
another  penny,  though  it  were  to  save 
you  from  hanging." 

There  ensued  a  silence.  To  attempt 
to  contradict  Mrs.  Garston  never  brought 
forth  good  fruit ;  as  Barnaby  knew.  He 
saw  another  thing — that  what  she  had 
said  now  would  be  irrevocable  for  life. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  explicitly 
stated  her  intentions,  and  he  knew  they 
would  be  abiding  ones." 

"  Would  you  make  me  the  same  offer, 
Aunt  Garston,  if  I  married  some  one 
else  ?  " 

"  If  you  did  what '?  " 

"Married  another  lady;  not  Belle  An- 
nesley  Y  " 

The  question  put  Mrs.  Garston  into 
such  a  rage  that  he  was  fain  to  withdraw 
it,  saying  she  had  comprehended  him 
wrongly. 

"  I  hope  I  did.  But  I  don't  think  it. 
If  you  could  go  and  marry  another,  after 
what  you've  led  that  child  to  expect, 
you  might  look  for  Heaven's  vengeance 
to  come  down  upon  you.  She'd  be  well 
quit  of  a  man  who  could  act  so,  but  it 
would  break  her  heart.  You  may  be  a 
villain,  Barnaby  Dawkes;  but  I'd  advise 
you  to  keep  it  to  yourself  in  my  hearing. 
And  that's  all  I've  got  to  say." 

Barnaby  Dawkes  pushed  his  chair 
back,  and  fell  into  thought.  A  minute 
or  two,  and  he  lifted  his  head  again. 

"  Marriage  is  a  serious  matter,  Mrs. 
Garston;  few  of  us,  I  imagine,  like  to 
enter  upon  it  rashly.  I  must  take  a 
week  or  two  for  consideration." 

"  That's  the  most  sensible  thing  you've 
said  this  evening,  Barby  Dawkes." 


"  And  go  back  to  Wales  while  I  re- 
flect ;  I  dare  not  stay  in  London.  You 
will  help  me,  Aunt  Garston  ?  I  cannot 
live  upon  air." 

Mrs.  Garston  grunted.  Air  was  cer- 
tainly not  very  substantial  to  live  upon. 

"  I'll  give  you  fifty  pounds." 

"  Thank  you.  If  you  would  but  make 
it  a  hundred  !  " 

"  Now  don't  you  try  my  patience  too 
much.  What  I've  said  I  mean,  Barby. 
Will  you  take  some  dinner  ?  " 

"  Thank  you.  With  immense  pleas- 
ure." 

"Then  just  ring  that  bell  to  let  them 
know  I'm  ready  for  it.  I'd  have  left  oat 
the  "  immense,"  if  I  had  been  you." 

When  the  announcement  of  the  din- 
ner's being  served  was  brought,  the  Cap- 
tain gallantly  held  out  his  arm.  Mrs. 
Garston  put  it  aside  with  her  stick  and 
stalked  on,  leaving  him  to  follow  behind. 

"  I  go  in  by  myself  when  Thomas 
Kage  is  not  here." 

"  Crush  him  for  a  snake  in  the  grass  !  '' 
mentally  uttered  the  rejected  Captain. 
"  He'll  get  the  bulk  of  the  money,  the 
smooth  reptile." 

To  partake  of  Mrs.  Garston's  good  din- 
ner was  one  thing;  to  remain  the  whole 
evening  with  her  was  another;  and  Cap- 
tain Dawkes  rose  to  leave  with  the  table- 
cloth, making  an  excuse  that  he  had  a 
pressing  engagement. 

'•  I  thought  37ou  were  afraid  of  meet- 
ing some  sheriffs'  officers  in  the  streets," 
spoke  the  old  lady  in  her  open  manner. 

"  There's  not  so  much  danger,  ma'am, 
after  dark." 

But  nevertheless,  when  the  Captain 
reached  the  gate,  he  looked  cautiously  up 
the  road  and  down  the  road,  pulling  his 
coat-collar  high  about  his  ears. 

Little  did  Belle  Annesley,  enshrined 
within  the  safety  of  her  mother's  home 
so  short  a  distance  away,  dream  of  the 
joy  that  the  hour  had  in  store  for  her. 
Mrs.  Annesley,  whose  health  was  failing 
much,  spent  the  greater  portion  of  her 
time  in  her  own  chamber.  On  this  day 
she  had  been  downstairs  for  a  few  hours, 
but  went  up  again,  and  to  rest,  at  dusk  ; 
so  that  Belle  was  alone. 

Time  had  been  when  Mrs.  Annesley 
would  have  scrupled  to  leave  her  so  much 
without  a  companion,  but  Belle's  random 
days  were  over  :  never  a  lady  in  the  land 
more  staid,  tranquil,  home-sick,  than  she 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


155 


now.  Mrs.  Lowther  and  Mrs.  Richard 
Dunn  were  alwaj*s  more  than  glad  to  see 
her  ;  but  she  did  not  go  to  either  very 
often  ;  sometimes  they  ran  in  to  sit  with 
her. 

Seated  at  work  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp,  her  fingers  slow  and  listless,  her 
countenance  hopelessly  sad,  was  she. 
But  she  was  not  less  pretty  than  of  old. 
The  face  was  young  and  fair;  the  blue 
ribbons — she  cared  for  no  other  color — 
were  still  adorning  the  fine  light  hair 
with  its  golden  tinge.  Her  dress  this 
evening  was  a  white  sprigged  muslin, 
and  altogether  she  looked  infinitely 
charming. 

"That's  Sarah  Dunn,"  she  softly 
said  to  herself,  as  a  ring  was  heard.  "  I 
thought  she  would  be  coming  in." 

"Captain  Dawkes,  miss,"  announced 
the  servant. 

One  moment's  gaze,  as  though  she  had 
not  heard,  and  then  Belle  dropped  her 
work,  and  rose.  Her  pulses  were  tingling, 
her  heart  bounding,  her  face  turning 
white  as  death.  She  felt  sick  with  the 
rush  of  joy.  her  hands  and  frame  were 
alike  trembling  ;  for  a  moment  her  sight 
left  her,  and  she  grasped  the  table  for 
support. 

Standing  before  her,  when  they  were 
shut  in  alone,  Captain  Dawkes,  experi- 
enced man  that  he  was,  read  the  signs, 
read  the  love.  It  brought  him  pleasure  ; 
for  if  his  heart  had  a  preference,  it  was 
for  this  girl.  He  took  her  hands  in  his, 
he  bent  his  face  with  a  soft  whisper. 

"  You  are  glad  to  see  me,  Belle  ?  " 

Glad  !  An  instant's  struggle  to 
maintain  her  calmness,  as  a  well-trained 
young  lady  should,  and  then  poor  Belle 
gave  way.  She  burst  into  tears,  and 
Captain  Dawkes  gathered  the  pretty  face 
to  his  shoulder.  He  scrupled  not  to  kiss 
it,  and  kiss  it  again  ;  although  he  had 
as  much  intention  of  marrying  her  as  he 
had  of  marrying  you. 

"  It  has  been  so  long — so  long  !  "  mur- 
mured Belle,  ashamed  of  her  emotion, 
and  sitting  down  to  the  work.  "  I 
thought  you  were  never  coming  again." 

"  As  did  I,"  responded  the  Captain, 
taking  a  chair  in  front  of  her.  "  Things 
have  been  going  cross  and  contrary,  my 
little  one." 

"  Are  the}'  straight  now  ?  " 
"  Anything  but  that.     If  that  wicked 
old  party  would  but  do  her  duty  by  me, 


I  should  have  been  all  right  long  ago. 
I've  just  come  awa}r  from  her;  been  un- 
dergoing the  penalty  of  dining  with  the 
mummy." 

"  And  have  you  come  to  London  to  re- 
main, Barnaby  ?  " 

"  Only  until  to-morrow." 

Her  face  fell  sadly.  He  drew  his 
chair  a  trifle  nearer. 

"  You  know,  my  pretty  one,  where  I 
would  be  if  I  could — where  my  heart  is. 
But  if  the  Fates  are  unpropitious,  what's 
to  be  done  ?  " 

"  It  must  be  very  dull  for  you,  away 
from  everybody." 

"A  frightful  exile." 

"  I  am  dull  too,"  she  added  in  a  plain- 
tive tone.  "  Mamma  is  always  ill  ; 
Sarah  has  her  own  home  now,  and  her 
baby ;  and  I  am  mostly  alone." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Annes- 
ley?" 

"  The  doctors  call  it  a  break-up  of  the 
constitution.  She  is  sadly  weak  and 
spiritless.  How  do  you  manage  to  amuse 
yourself,  Barnaby  ?  " 

"Fishing,"  answered  the  Captain 
shortly.  "  That  and  the  bemoaning  of 
my  hard  fate  fill  up  the  time." 

"  Have  you  many  friends  down 
there  ?  " 

"  Friends  !  There  !  You  never  saw 
such  a  miserable,  lonely,  out-of-the-world 
place  as  it  is,  Belle." 

The  color  in  the  fair  cheeks  was  going 
and  coming;  the  fingers,  plying  the 
needle,  began  to  tremble  again.  Belle's 
voice  was  faint  as  she  spoke  : 

"Do  you  know  what  I  heard?  I 
want  to  tell  you." 

"  Tell  away,  child.  What  did  vou 
hear  ?  " 

"  That  you  were  going  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"  Married  !  I !  "  And  the  Captain 
acted  well  his  perfect  astonishment. 

"  I  thought  it  could  not  be  true.  For- 
give me  for  repeating  it,  Barnaby." 

"  Why,  you  silly  child,  you  might  have 
known  it  was  not." 

The  words  and  the  reassurance  caused 
her  whole  heart  to  thrill  with  rapture. 
0,  but  it  was  good  to  undergo  the  past 
doubt  and  suffering  for  this  relief!  The 
dark  daj^s  gone  by  were  as  nothing  now. 
One  shy  glance  at  him  from  the  loving, 
pretty  blue  eyes,  and  Belle  sat  on  in 
silence.       A    question    actually    crossed 


156 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


Captain  Dawkes's  mind  for  the  moment 
— should  he  accept  the  offer  made  by 
Mrs.  Garston,  and  take  this  girl  to  his 
heart  as  his  wife  ?  He  cared  for  her 
more  than  he  could  ever  care  for  any 
other.  The  next  minute  he  nearly 
laughed  at  himself:  a  thousand  a-year 
and  domestic  bliss  would  not  suit  Barna- 
by  Dawkes. 

"  What  work  is  that  you  are  so  busy 
over,  my  fairy  ?  " 

"  One  of  mamma's  new  handkerchiefs  ; 
I  am  hemming  them  for  her,"  was  the 
simple  answer. 

"  Wish  I'd  got  somebody  to  hem 
mine." 

Belle  smiled  and  glanced  at  him.  In 
her  heart  she  was  feeling  ten  years 
}rounger.  Captain  Dawkes  suddenly 
bent  down,  and  kissed  the  hand  that 
held  the  cambric. 

"Halloa  !  who's  this,  I  wonder?  " 

A  visitor's  step  in  the  hall  called  forth 
the  exclamation.  Captain  Dawkes  was 
in  the  act  of  pushing  his  chair  back  to  a 
respectable  distance,  when  Mrs.  Richard 
Dunn  entered,  in  a  pink  silk  hood. 
Belle's  face  wore  some  conscious  confus- 
ion ;  and  Mrs.  Dunn  thought  she  must 
have  interrupted  a  scene  of  love-making. 

And  Captain  Dawkes,  who  did  not 
particularly  like  Mrs.  Richard  Dunn, 
took  up  his  hat  and  went  forth,  braving 
the  danger  from  the  sheriff's  officers. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

PLAYLNTG    FOR    HIGH    STAKES. 

In  her  own  favorite  room  at  the 
Rock,  with  its  soft  carpet  of  many  col- 
ors, and  its  beauteous  furniture,  its  rare 
and  costly  surroundings,  sat  Mrs.  Can- 
terbury. The  French  window  was 
opened  to  the  ground,  and  the  gay 
autumn  flowers  were  wafting  in  their 
sweetest  perfume.  On  the  lawn  beyond, 
the  young  heir  to  the  Rock  was  sport- 
ing with  his  attentive  friend,  Captain 
Dawkes.  The  blue  sky  was  overhead, 
the  warm  sunshine  shed  delight  around. 
Pleasant  things  all;  but  to  Caroline 
Canterbury  they  seemed  as  dismal  as  a 
dark  night.  For  her  the  world  had  lost 
its  charm. 

She  sat  in  a  low  chair  drawn   back 


from  the  window,  dressed  for  gaiety. 
It  was  afternoon  yet,  but  she  had  a 
drive  of  ten  miles  to  keep  a  dinner  en- 
gagement, and  the  carriage  to  convey 
her  was  already  coming  round.  It  was 
only  yesterday  that  Thomas  Kage  had 
quitted  her  after  his  brief  visit,  and  yet 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  since 
lived  a  lifetime. 

None,  save  herself,  might  know  what 
fond  dreams  she  had  been  indulging 
since  the  death  of  Mr.  Canterbury ; 
dreams  of  which  Thomas  Kage  was  the 
hero.  There  was  no  sin  in  doing  it,  as 
she  would  softl}'  repeat  over  and  over  to 
herself:  she  was  as  free  as  air,  and  there 
could  be  no  sin.  None,  save  herself, 
could  ever  know  or  conceive  what  awful 
pain,  mortification,  and  repentance  his 
rejection  inflicted  on  her.  Bright  was 
she  to  look  at  in  her  gala-robes ;  the 
black-net  dress  with  its  white-satin  rib- 
bons, than  which  nothing  could  be  more 
attractive  to  the  eye,  and  the  diamonds 
gleaming  in  the  hair  where  the  widow's 
cap  so  recently  had  been  ;  but  the  heart 
within  was  encased  in  sackcloth  and  bit- 
ter ashes.  What  were  all  the  jewels 
and  gauds  of  the  world  to  her,  since  she 
might  not  enjoy  them  ? 

She  could  not  enjoy  them  alone. 
Whatever  might  have  been  Caroline 
Kage's  greed  of  gain,  one  great  need 
was  implanted  in  her  by  nature — that 
of  companionship.  It  might  be,  that 
until  this  moment  she  never  knew  the 
full  extent  of  her  love  for  Thomas 
Kage  :  we  rarely  do  find  the  true  value 
of  a  thing  until  we  lose  it.  He  was 
lost  to  her  forever.  The  money  for 
which  she  had  sold  herself  was  hers ; 
but  it  had  deprived  her  of  Thomas 
Kage.  In  that  moment  it  seemed  that 
the  beautiful  things  in  the  room,  the 
Rock  itself,  the  fine  lands  she  looked 
out  upon,  had  all  grown  hateful  to  her. 
One  balm  amidst  it  alone  remained,  and 
that  was  her  little  boy  ;  her  love  for  him 
approached  idolatry. 

When  she  and  Mr.  Kage  had  met  at 
breakfast-,  the  morning  after  that  pain- 
ful and  decisive  interview  took  place,  no 
allusion  to  it  was  made  by  either  of 
them.  Caroline  chose  to  have  the 
child  at  the  breakfast-table,  perhaps  as 
a  break  to  what  might  otherwise  have 
been  an  embarrassing  meal.  But  Mr. 
Kage,  for  his  part,  seemed  to  retain  no 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


157 


remembrance  of  it ;  he  was  calm,  kind, 
self-contained  in  manner  as  usual  ; 
read}'  of  speech,  talking  of  indifferent 
things,  and  still  very  solicitous  for  her 
comfort  and  welfare.  They  spoke  of 
business  matters  before  his  departure  ; 
his  closed  executorship,  and  the  future 
of  the  child,  to  whom  he  was  trustee. 
And  this  morning  Caroline  had  received 
a  letter  from  him,  which  must  have 
been  written,  she  thought,  on  his  jour- 
ney to  town.     It  concluded  as  follows  : 

"  Your  life  at  the  Rock  must  indeed 
he  very  lonely.  When  you  alluded  to 
it  this  morning,  I  felt  the  fact  just  as 
forcibly  as  you.  I  had  thought  your 
mother  lived  with  you.  You  do  not 
please  to  have  her,  you  say ;  but  is 
there  no  one  else  that  you  could  have  ? 
I  do  not  like  to  suggest  one  of  the  Miss 
Canterburys,  say  Millicent ;  but  she 
would  be  very  suitable,  and  you  used  to 
be  the  best  of  friends  and  companions. 
Think  of  it,  Caroline.  If  not  one  of 
them,  take  some  other  lady  :  and  a  de- 
sirable inmate  would  not  be  difficult  to 
find. 

"Meanwhile,  I  beg  you  to  remember 
what  I  said  to  you  in  regard  to  Barna- 
by Dawkes.  Dismiss  him  at  once  from 
intimacy,  and  gradually  drop  his  ac- 
quaintance altogether.  I  should  not 
bid  you  do  this,  Caroline,  without  good 
and  sufficient  reason. 

"  One  thing  more.  If  you  are  ever 
in  need  of  advice  or  counsel,  or  aid  of 
any  sort,  send  for  me.  Whatever  my 
engagements  may  be,  I  will  not  fail  to 
come  to  you  without  delay. 

"  Give  my  love  to  my  little  namesake, 
Thomas.  Train  him  well — 0  Caroline, 
train  him  well  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
word  :  you  will  find  all  comfort  in  doing 
it.  And  believe  me  ever  to  be  your 
faithful  friend  and  affectionate  cousin, 
"Thomas  C.  C.  Kage." 

This  note  lay  in  Mrs.  Canterbury's 
bosom,  now  as  sKe  sat.  She  was  in  a 
very  humble  frame  of  miud,  and  count- 
ed the  friendship  of  such  a  man  as 
something. 

But  it  was  a  great  deal  easier  to  say, 
Dismiss  Barnaby  Dawkes  at  once  from 
intimacy,  than  it  might  be  to  do  it. 
Besides,  Caroline  could  not  quite  see 
the  urgent  necessity  for  this  step.     He 


was  little  Tom's  friend  and  playmate — 
there  they  were  now,  playing  on  the 
lawn — and  what  harm  could  it  be  ?  So 
that  portion  of  the  letter,  and  it  was  the 
only  one  calling  for  prompt  action,  she 
disregarded. 

"  Mamma,  there's  the  carriage  at  the 
door,"  said  the  little  fellow,  running  in, 
with  his  imperfect  speech. 

Mrs.  Canterbury  took  him  on  her 
knee,  kissing  him  passionately.  Beyond 
this  child,  she  had  nothing  in  life  to  sat- 
isfy the  longing  of  an  aching  heart  ; 
and  hers  was  so  young  still !  The  many 
years  to  come  looked  long  and  dreary 
enough  when  she  cast  a  thought  to 
them. 

"  Be  a  good  boy,  my  darling.  Mam- 
ma must  go." 

Her  maid  appeared  with  a  cloak,  and 
Mrs.  Canterbury  rose.  Captain  Dawkes, 
coming  in  through  the  open  window, 
took  the  mantle  and  asked  leave  to  place 
it  on  her  shoulders.  Then  he  offered  his 
arm  to  conduct  her  to  the  carriage,  and 
assisted  her  in.  It  was  all  done  in  a 
quiet,  almost  deprecating,  kind  of  way; 
neither  Mrs.  Canterbury  nor  anybody 
else  could  have  taken  alarm  at  it.  The 
last  sight  that  met  her  view,  as  she  drove 
awa}',  was  her  boy  kissing  his  hand  to 
her  from  Captain  Dawkes's  shoulder. 

Within  a  week  of  this  time,  Captain 
Dawkes  left  Chilling  for  London,  to  hold 
his  interview  with  Mrs.  Garston — as  was 
before  related.  On  the  third  day  he  was 
back  again.  Mrs.  Canterbury  was  gen- 
uinely pleased  to  see  him;  the  little  boy 
had  felt  sadly  dull,  and  in  truth  so  had 
she.  She  had  no  love  for  Captain 
Dawkes,  but  she  liked  him ;  and  such 
was  the  monotony  of  her  life,  that  he, 
their  daily  visitor,  had  been  sensibly 
missed.  He  told  Mrs.  Canterbury  that 
he  had  made  it  all  right  with  that  old 
aunt  of  his,  and  that  she  had  placed  his 
succession  to  her  fortune  beyond  doubt. 

The  autumn  days  went  on,  and  with 
them  Mrs.  Canterbury's  sense  of  isola- 
tion. When  the  first  sting  of  Thomas 
Ivage's  rejection  had  in  a  degree  worn 
away,  she  grew  to  resent  it,  and  her  mind 
filled  itself  with  bitter  feelings  towards 
him.  She  began  to  contrast  his  heart- 
less rejection  of  her  with  Captain 
Dawkes's  unobtrusive  homage.  0,  but 
Barnaby  Dawkes  was  playing  his  cards 
well !     And  the  stakes  were  high. 


158 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


Mrs.  Kage  looking  on  with  sharpened 
eyes,  took  alarm.  The  Captain's  visits 
to  the  Rock  grew,  in  her  mind,  more 
suspicious.  One  evening,  going  thereto 
dinner  at  dusk,  she  saw  Caroline  on  his 
arm,  pacing  the  dim  walks  ;  and  the  two 
seemed  to  be  talking  confidentially. 
Mrs.  Kage  made  her  way  to  a  private 
room,  and  sent  a  mandate  for  her  daugh- 
ter. Caroline  received  the  reproaches 
coolly. 

"  There's  not  the  slightest  cause  for 
this,  mamma.  Even  if  I  were  going  to 
marry  Captain  Dawkes,  as  you  seem  to 
insist  upon  it  that  I  must  be,  what 
should  you  have  to  urge  against  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Kage  was  in  too  great  a  passion 
to  say  what.  She  broke  her  choicest 
smelling-bottle. 

"  Captain  Dawkes  is  a  gentleman, 
mamma.  Looking  after  my  money  ?  0 
dear,  no  ;  he  has  no  need  to  look  after  it, 
he  will  have  plenty  of  his  own.  All 
Mrs.  Garston's  will  be  his,  you  know." 

"  That's  just  what  I  don't  know," 
shrieked  Mrs.  Kage.  "  And  if  I  did,  I 
don't  like  the  man,  Caroline.  I'm  sure 
there's  something  or  other  against  him. 
What  has  he  been  staying  at  Chilling 
for,  all  this  while,  I'd  like  to  know  ? 
He's  playing  a  part,  that's  what  he  is  ; 
and  his  pretended  love  for  little  Tom  is 
all  put  on — it's  as  false  as  he.  0  my 
poor  nerves  !  why  do  you  excite  me, 
Caroline  ?  " 

Caroline  only  laughed  in  answer,  and 
said  that  dinner  was  waiting.  Mrs.  Kage 
liked  her  dinner  very  much,  and  did  not 
keep  it  waiting  long. 

But,  to  Mrs.  Canterbury's  intense  sur- 
prise, she  heard  the  next  day  that  her 
mother  and  her  mother's  maid,  Fry,  had 
gone  to  London.  Captain  Dawkes  held 
his  breath  when  he  heard  it,  and  asked 
what  they  had  gone  for.  0,  just  a  whim, 
she  supposed,  was  Caroline's  careless  an- 
swer ;  and  after  that  she  thought  no 
more  about  it. 

Mrs.  Kage,  more  energetic  than  was 
her  usual  custom,  had  taken  a  sudden 
resolution  to  clear  up  the  mystery  that, 
in  her  opinion,  surrounded  Captain 
Dawkes.  She  and  that  gentlemen 
owned  to  a  kind  of  subtle  instinct 
against  each  other  ;  and  it  would  not  be 
too  much  to  say  that  she  had  hated  him 
since  the  day  he  was  bold  enough  to  in- 
sinuate that  her  delicate  complexion  did 


not  owe  its  lovely  tints  to  nature.  For 
the  rude  man  to  aspire  to  Caroline  and 
her  wealth,  was  worse  than  gall  and 
wormwood  to  Mrs.  Kage ;  and  she  de- 
termined to  go  and  learn  a  little  about 
him  from  Mrs.  Garston.  To  whose  house 
she  proceeded  amidst  a  dense  November 
fog  on  the  day  subsequent  to  her  arrival 
in  London. 

But,  what  with  Mrs.  Kage's  mincing 
affectation,  always  in  extreme  flow  in 
society,  what  with  Mrs.  Garston's  deaf- 
ness, always  worse  when  under  any  sur- 
prise, the  interview  was  a  little  compli- 
cated. Compliments  over — which  Mrs. 
Kage  entered  upon  and  Mrs.  Garston  re- 
ceived ungraciously,  inwardly  wondering, 
and  very  nearly  asking,  why  so  battered- 
looking  an  old  creature,  her  head  nod- 
ding incessantly,  should  have  come,  out 
from  her  home — the  visitor  entered  upon 
her  business  ;  explaining,  rather  frankly 
for  her,  the  motive  of  her  visit — that  she 
feared  Mrs.  Garston's  relative,  Captain 
Dawkes,  was  casting  covetous  eyes  on  her 
daughter,  with  a  view  to  marriage  and  to 
the  grasping  of  her  daughter's  wealth. 
She  prayed  Mrs.  Garston  to  feel  for  her, 
and  candidly  tell  her  what  there  was 
against  Captain  Dawkes — it  was  some- 
thing bad,  she  felt  sure — that  she  might 
"open  Caroline's  eyes  to  his  machina- 
tions." 

But  now,  between  the  mincing  tone, 
and  the  frequent  application  to  one  or 
other  of  those  auxiliaries  to  weak  nerves, 
the  scent-bottles,  all  that  Mrs.  Garston 
comprehended  of  this  harangue  was, 
that  Barnaby  Dawkes  was  going  to  be 
married. 

"  0,"  said  she,  "  made  up  his  mind  at 
last,  has  he  ?  He  has  taken  his  time 
over  it.  It's  a  good  two  months  since 
he  sat  where  you  do,  talking  it  over  with 
me." 

Mrs.  Kage  felt  inclined  to  faint. 
"  Did  you  approve  of  it,  then  ?  " 

"Did  I  what?"  asked  Mrs.  Garston. 

"  Uphold  him  in  his  crafty  scheme? 
I'd  never  have  believed  it !  " 

Had  Mrs.  Garston  caught  the  word 
crafty,  her  answer  might  have  been  ex- 
plosive.    It  was  only  hard. 

"  Barnaby  Dawkes  told  me  he  want- 
ed to  marry.  Keziah  as  good  as  told 
me ;  promising  he  would  then  be  as 
steady  as  Old  Time.  I  neither  said  to 
him  "  do  "  nor  "  don't ;  "   but  I  told  him, 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


159 


if  he  did  marry  the  girl,  he  might  look 
to  me  for  an  income." 

"Dear  me  !  Do  you  think  it  right  to 
play  with  a  lady's  name  in  that  free 
way  ? "  demanded  Mrs.  Kage,  gently 
touching  her  nose  with  essence  of  lav- 
ender. 

"Right!"  retorted  Mrs.  Garston; 
"  the  girl's  d}Ting  for  him." 

"  Mrs.  Kage's  head  nodded  ominously. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  !  How  dare  you  say 
such  a  thing  of  my  daughter?" 

"  Say  it  of  whom  ?  " 

"  My  daughter,  Mrs.  Canterbur}\ 
Deaf  old  model  !  "  added  the  honorable 
lady  for  her  own  especial  benefit. 

"  Who  did  say  it  of  your  daughter?  " 
retorted  Mrs.  Garston,  bringing  down 
her  stick  with  such  force  that  the  visit- 
or leaped  upwards.  "  It  was  of  Belle 
Annesley  !  " 

Mrs.  Kage  thought  they  must  be  at 
cross-purposes,  and  blamed  the  deafness. 

"I  don't  think  you  understand 
ma'am." 

"I  don't  think  you  do!"  was  Mrs. 
Garston's  irascible  answer.  "  It's  Belle 
Annesley  that  Barby  Dawkes  is  going 
to  marry,  if  he  marries  at  all.  He  has 
been  courting  her  for  these  two  or  three 
years  past." 

Bit  by  bit,  it  all  came  out ;  at  least 
the  version  of  it  that  lay  in  the  old 
lady's  mind.  They  wanted,  she  was 
told,  to  get  married  ;  and  she  had 
smoothed  the  way  by  promising  to  settle 
on  them  seven  hundred  a-year,  which, 
with  Belle's  three  hundred  when  her 
mother  died  —  and  that  might  not  be 
long  first — would  make  their  income  a 
thousand.  The  relief  to  Mrs.  Kage  was 
something  better  than  perfume.  She 
opened  her  fan,  and  gently  wafted  a 
little  cool  air  to  her  heated  face.  As 
she  was  doing  this,  a  question  arose  to 
her,  and  she  put  it  openly  :  "  Why,  if 
Captain  Dawkes  were  going  to  marry 
Belle  Annesley,  should  he  remain  so 
long  at  Chilling?" 

Mrs.  Garston  was  at  no  fault  for  an 
answer ;  the  reason,  to  her  mind,  was 
clear  enough. 

"  I  said  I'd  pay  his  debts  on  the  wed- 
ding-day ;  but  I  expect  my  gentleman 
has  such  a  pack  of  them,  that  he  is  try- 
ing to  make  an  arrangement  with  his 
creditors  to  take  less  than  their  due,  be- 
cause he  is  ashamed  of  letting  me  know 
the  extent  of  the  whole. 


"  Oh,  Captain  Dawkes  has  debts, 
then  !  "  said  Mrs.  Kage. 

"  Bushels  of  'em  ;  he  never  was  with- 
out debts,  and  he  never  will  be,  that's 
more.  The  money  I  settle  will  be  set- 
tled upon  her  and  her  children.  I'd 
not  trust  it  to  his  mercy." 

"  He  tells  society  at  Chilling  that  he 
is  to  be  your  sole  heir." 

"  Does  he  !  '  Society '  needn't  be- 
lieve him." 

"Will  he  be?" 

"  My  heir ! "  and  down  came  the 
stick  with  a  flutter.  "  No,  he  never 
will!  I'd  not  make  Barby  Dawkes  my 
heir  to  save  him  from  hanging.  If  he 
marries  Belle,  he  gets  what  I  told  you; 
otherwise,  he'll  never  have  more  from 
me  than  will  keep  him  on  bacon  and 
eggs  in  lodgings.  Barby  knows  all  this 
just  as  well  as  I  do.  I  went  into  it 
with  him  when  he  was  last  here." 

"  I  think  he  must  be — if  you'll  ex- 
cuse my  saying  it — rather  given  to  tell 
boasting  falsehoods,"  spoke  Mrs.  Kage. 

Out  it  all  came.  Thus  set  off  on  the 
score  of  Barby's  boastings  and  doings, 
Mrs.  Garston  told  all  the  ill  she  knew 
of  him  :  his  fast  living,  and  his  many 
accumulations  of  debt ;  his  meannesses, 
and  deludings  of  his  creditors ;  his 
startings  afresh  on  his  legs,  through  her, 
and  his  speedy  topplings-down  again. 
Mrs.  Kage  placidly  folded  her  hands  as 
she  listened,  and  hoped  Miss  Belle  An- 
nesley would  get  "  a  bargain."  Any 
lady  was  welcome  to  him,  provided  it 
was  not  her  own  daughter ;  and  in  her 
intense  selfishness  she  would  not  have 
lifted  a  finger  to  save  Belle  Annesley 
from  him. 

"  It's  the  best  thing  he  can  do ; 
they'll  get  along  on  a  thousand  a-year  ; 
very — ah — generous  of  you,  I'm  sure  ! 
I  suppose  he  is — ah — attached  to  her." 

"  If  he's  not,  he  ought  to  be,"  snap- 
ped Mrs.  Garston.  "He  made  enough 
love  to  her,  they  say  ;  and  she  has  been 
pining  out  her  heart  for  him,  silly 
child  !  " 

"Vastly  silly,"  assented  Mrs.  Kage, 
surreptitiously  flinging  some  pungent 
drops  on  the  carpet. 

"  Barby  seemed  to  be  doubtful  about 
the  marriage  when  we  were  having  mat- 
ters out  together,  and  said  he  must  take 
time  to  consider — afraid  of  his  mass  of 
debts,  I  suppose ;  I'll  answer  for  it, 
some  of  them  are  not  of  too  reputable  a 


160 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


nature.  He  soon  made  up  his  mind, 
though  ;  for  he  went  straight  from  me 
that  night  to  Belle  Annesley,  and 
Dickey  Dunn's  wife  found  him  there 
love-making.  Every  mortal  day  since 
have  I  been  expecting  him  here  to 
claim  my  promise,  and  get  money-mat- 
ters put  in  train  for  the  marriage  ;  and 
I  know  by  the  delay  he  is  in  some  deep 
mess  that  it's  not  so  easy  to  get  out  of." 

"  No  doubt,"  murmured  Mrs.  Kage. 
And  he  has  found  the  Rock  good  quar- 
ters to  dine  at  while  he's  doing  it. 
Won't  Caroline  listen  when  I  open  the 
budget ! " 

"  He  will  contrive  it,  though  ;  he  is 
crafty  and  keen/'  pursued  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton,  not  having  caught  a  syllable  of  the 
intervening  words.  "  I  shouldn't  won- 
der but  they'll  be  married  now  before 
Christmas.  I  told  Belle  so  when  she 
was  here  two  or  three  days  ago;  it  made 
her  blush  like  a  robin.  She  confessed 
to  have  had  a  letter  from  him  that  very 
morning." 

Perhaps  no  diplomatist  ever  went 
away  from  an  interview  more  completely 
satisfied  than  Mrs.  Kage  from  hers. 
Her  fears  in  regard  to  the  gallant  Cap- 
tain and  Caroline  were  laid  to  rest. 
She  purposed  returning  to  Chilling  on 
the  morrow  and  carrying  her  budget 
with  her,  making  herself  comfortable 
meanwhile  at  her  hotel. 

"But  now,  whether  it  was  that  the 
journey  up  had  been  too  much  for  her 
strength,  or  that  the  London  fog  had 
struck  to  her,  Mrs.  Kage,  on  the  even- 
ing of  this  same  day,  fouud  herself  feel- 
ing ill.  The  following  morning  she 
seemed  very  ill  ;  and  Pry,  her  maid, 
called  in  a  doctor.  That  functionary 
decided  that  she  had  taken  a  severe  cold, 
and  said  she  must  not  attempt  to  quit 
her  bedroom,  or  to  travel  for  at  least  a 
week.  Lying  at  rest,  and  being  petted 
with  nice  invalid  dishes  —  game  and 
such-like  good  things,  and  plenty  of 
mulled  wine — was  rather  agreeable  than 
not  to  Mrs.  Kage.  The  week  passed 
pleasantly  enough,  in  spite  of  its  soli- 
tude. She  sent  to  ask  Sarah  Annesley, 
that  was,  to  come  and  see  her  ;  but 
learnt  that  Richard  Dunn  and  his  wife 
were  staying  at  Brighton. 

At  the  week's  end  Mrs.  Kage  went 
home.  Pry  wanted  her  to  break  the 
journey  by  sleeping  on   the   road,   but 


Mrs.  Kage  did  not  like  strange  inns, 
and  pushed  on.  She  got  home  at  nine 
at  night,  too  much  done  up  for  anything 
but  bed. 

Breakfast  was  taken  to  her  in  the 
morning.  Poor  wan  old  thing  she  look- 
ed in  her  nightcap,  sitting  up  to  eat  it  ! 
Without  her  face  embellishments,  she 
did  not  like  to  be  stared  at,  even  by 
Fry ;  and  she  sharply  told  the  maid  to 
come  back  for  the  tray  when  she  should 
have  finished.  Between  the  intervals 
of  her  going  and  returning,  Pry  chanced 
to  hear  a  piece  of  news  ;  and  when  she 
went  in  again  it  was  with  a  face  as 
white  as  her  mistress's,  though  not  so 
haggard. 

Report  ran  that  Mrs.  Canterbury  had 
gone  out  of  the  Rock  on  her  way  to 
church,  to  be  married  to  Captain 
Dawkes. 

"Eh?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kage,  too 
much  startled  to  realize  the  words,  and 
looking  up  in  a  helpless  manner. 

"  I  think  it's  true,  ma'am,"  said  Fry. 
"  The  sexton's  boy  is  telling  them  down- 
stairs." 

How  Mrs.  Kage  was  rushed  into  her 
clothes,  and  her  bonnet  put  on,  and  her 
face  made  passable,  and  got  down  to  the 
church  in  the  space  of  a  few  minutes, 
Fry  says  she  shall  never  know  to  her 
dying  day.  The  news  was  true,  and 
Mrs.  Kage  was  not  in  time. 

Very,  very  true.  Captain  Dawkes, 
taking  alarm  no  doubt  at  the  mother's 
sudden  journey  to  London,  had  made 
good  play  with  Mrs.  Canterbury,  and  per- 
suaded her  to  a  quick  and  quiet  mar- 
riage. That  the  sore  feeling  induced  by 
the  rejection  of  Thomas  Kage  urged  her 
on  in  fatal  blindness  was,  no  doubt,  the 
secret  of  her  acceding.  But  that  was 
known  only  to  herself,  and  is  of  little  mo- 
ment to  us.  The  unhappy  step  was 
taken,  and  already  past  redemption. 

The  ceremony  bad  just  concluded,  and 
the  bride  and  bridegroom,  with  Keziah 
for  bridesmaid,  and  a  friend  of  Captain 
Dawkes's  as  groomsman,  were  quitting 
the  altar  for  the  vestry.  Caroline  wore 
a  quiet  gray-silk  dress  and  white  bon- 
net; Keziah  similar  attire.  Mrs.  Kage, 
a  variety  of  emotions  giving  her  wings, 
flew  into  the  vestry  after  them  ;  Fry  sit- 
ting down  in  a  pew  to  wait. 

That  a  scene  of  confusion  ensued  will 
readily  be  imagined.     Noise,   reproaches, 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


101 


tumult.  Captain  Dawkes  and  Keziah, 
their  end  attained,  were  cool  and  calm  as 
unbroken  ice;  but  for  the  clergyman, 
Mr.  Rufort's  substitute,  they  bad  polite- 
ly, but  forcibly,  conducted  Mrs.  Kage 
from  the  church  again.  The  Rev.  Mr. 
Jennings,  a  middle-aged,  fresh-colored, 
capable  man,  stood  by  Mrs.  Kage  and 
protected  her. 

"  I  ivill  speak,"  panted  that  lady  :  "I 
am  her  mother;  and  Mr.  Jennings  told 
them  decisively  that  the  speaker  ought 
to  be  heard.  But  perhaps  he  was  not 
prepared  for  quite  all  she  had  to  say. 

Every  accusation  that  Mrs.  Garston 
had  made  on  Barnaby  Dawkes,  every  dis- 
paraging epithet  she  had  applied  to  him, 
Mrs.  Kage  repeated;  affirming  that  it 
was  as  true  as  gospel.  She  was  really  ag- 
itated, and  for  once  in  her  life  affecta- 
tion was  thrown  aside,  as  she  demanded 
whether  the  ceremony  could  not  be  un- 
said. Caroline,  between  fright  and  emo- 
tion, burst  into  tears. 

"  You  have  cause  to  cry,  child,  Heav- 
en knows.  He  has  been  hiding  down 
here  all  this  while  from  his  creditors  ;  he 
is  engaged  to  that  sweet  girl,  who  is 
breaking  her  heart  for  him  ;  they  were 
to  have  been  married  before  Christmas. 
0  Caroline,  it  is  not  you  he  wants,  but 
your  money,  to  help  him  out  of  his  debts  ! 
He  has  millions  of  them.  Deny  it  if  you 
dare  !  "  she  added  with  a  shriek, Stamp- 
ing at  Barby. 

And  with  that  shriek,  Mrs.  Kage  broke 
down.  She  sank  on  a  chair,  white  and 
cold  ;  the  exertion  had  been  rather  too 
much  for  the  worn-out  frame.  Nobody 
saw  anything  was  amiss ;  it  was  only  sup- 
posed she  had  no  more  to  say. 

Caroline,  utterly  bewildered,  doubting, 
sick,  not  knowing  what  to  believe  or  dis- 
believe, looked  at  her  new  husband.  It 
had  not  been  Barnabjr  Dawkes  if  he  had 
failed  in  his  powers  of  rhetoric  now. 
With  a  smile  of  calm  contempt  at  the 
mass  of  words,  and  of  sweetness  for  Caro- 
line, he  put  her  hand  within  his  arm, 
and  spoke  a  few  low  earnest  syllables  of 
reassurance.  He  turned  to  the  clergy- 
man, and  quietly  declared  the  whole 
thing  a  mistake  ;  a  tissue  of  misrepre- 
sentations from  beginning  to  end — as 
the  future  would  prove.  And  such  was 
his  cool  self-asserting  manner,  that  the 
clergyman  yielded  belief  to  it  a<  well  as 
the  young  wife. 
10 


"  These  stories  have  been  concocted  by 
Mrs.  Garston,"  spoke  Keziah  boldly. 
"  She  was  bitterly  against  my  brother's 
marrying,  and  hoped  to  stop  it.  The 
poor  ancient  lady  is  in  her  dotage." 

With  a  sob  of  relief,  Caroline  looked 
at  her  husband  as  he  led  her  down  the 
aisle  of  the  church.  She  implicitly  be- 
lieved in  him,  and  a  smile  rose  to  her  face 
to  chase  away  the  tears.  Fry  stood  up 
as  they  passed  her,  and  curtsied.  The 
groomsman,  led  out  Kezi'ah  ;  the  clergy- 
man followed  slowly  at  a  distance,  his 
surplice  on  still. 

It  was  not  in  Fry's  nature  to  stay  be- 
hind. The  bride  and  bridegroom  were 
going  away  from  the  church-door  direct 
on  their  wedding-tour;  the  carriage  had 
post-horses  to  it,  an  imperial  was  on  it, 
a  man  and  maid-servant  behind.  Cap- 
tain Dawkes  handed  in  his  bride,  and 
they  set  off  at  a  canter.  Keziah  who 
would  be  going  back  to  London  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  started  on  foot  for  her 
brother's  cottage  to  change  her  attire,  the 
groomsman  by  her  side. 

"But  where  is  my  mistress?"  ex- 
claimed Fry,  turning  round  when  she  had 
sufficiently  feasted  her  eyes,  and  could 
see  only  the  back  of  the  carriage  fading 
away  in  the  distance. 

"  She  is  in  the  vestry,"  said  Mr.  Jen- 
nings. "  I  held  out  my  arm  to  her,  but 
she  would  not  notice  it.  It  is  a  sad  pitjT, 
Fry,  she  should  be  put  about  like  this  by 
the  marriage." 

"  It  has  come  upon  her  so  sudden,  you 
see,  sir,  for  one  thing,"  was  Fry's  an- 
swer. 

"  So  it  seems.  When  Captain  Dawkes 
came  to  me  last  night  about  the  arrange- 
ments— and  that  was  the  first  intimation, 
I  had  of  it — I'm  sure  I  thought  he  said 
Mrs.  Kage  was  privy  to  it.  My  mistake, 
I  suppose." 

Fry  hastened  on  to  the  vestry.  Mr. 
Jennings,  returning  more  leisurely,  and 
unbuttoning  his  surplice  as  he  walked^, 
was  surprised  to  see  her  dart  out  again, 
livid  with  fright. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  0  sir,  please  come  and  see  !  Mjr  mis- 
tress is  fallen  sideways,  with  the  most 
dreadful  face  you  ever  saw. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Jennings  made  but 
one  step  to  the  vestry.  Mrs.  Kage  had 
been  seized  with  paralysis. 


162 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

BREAKING   THE   NEWS    TO    BELLE. 

The  handsome  carriage  of  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton,  with  its  fat  old  coachman  on  the  box 
in  front,  and  its  footman  behind,  holding 
his  gold-headed  stick  slantwise,  was 
steadily  making  its  way  along  the  Strand. 
But  that  Mrs.  Garston  was  a  little  eccen- 
tric, ordering  her  carriage  out  at  all  hours 
as  the  mood  took  her,  her  servants  might 
have  wondered  what  took  her  abroad  so 
early  this  morning.  St.  Mary's  Church 
was  striking  eleven  as  they  bowled  past 
it. 

Thomas  Kage  felt  surprised,  if  the  ser- 
vants did  not.  He  was  hard  at  work  in 
his  chambers  on  the  dull  November 
morning,  when  Mrs.  Garston's  footman 
penetrated  to  the  room,  saying  his  mis- 
tress was  coming  up.  Hastening  down, 
Mr.  Kage  met  her  on  the  first  flight  of 
stairs,  ascending  by  help  of  her  stick. 
She  took  his  arm  without  a  word  of  greet- 
ing, and  pointed  upwards.  He  stirred 
his  fire  into  a  blaze,  and  brought  forward 
the  most  comfortable  chair  for  her  to  sit 
in. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?"  she 
shortly  asked.  And  they  were  the  first 
words  she  had  spoken.  Mr.  Kage  re- 
plied that  he  had  heard  none  in  partic- 
lar. 

Upon  that  Mrs.  Garston  dived  into  her 
pocket,  and  brought  forth  two  letters, 
which  she  placed  on  the  table.  She  was 
relieving  herself  of  some  weighty  emo- 
tion by  emphatic  thumps  with  her  stick. 
Thomas  Kage  wondered  what  in  the 
world  had  happened. 

"  She'll  repent  it  to  the  last  hour  of 
her  life.  Mark  you  that,  Thomas — 
though  I  ma}'  not  live  to  see  it.  I 
thought  her  a  :fool  for  making  that  other 
marriage,;  but  she  was  not  half  the  fool 
then  that  she  is  now." 

And  still  Thomas  Kage  was  in  the 
dark. 

The  two  letters  before  Mrs.  Garston 
were  written,  one  by  Barnaby  Dawkes, 
airily  announcing  his  marriage  with 
Mrs.  Canterbury;  the  other  by  Keziah. 
Kesiah  very  briefly  mentioned  the  cere- 
mony at  which  she  had  assisted  ;  and 
followed  it  up  by  telling  of  the  seizure 
of  Mrs.  Kage.  She,  Keziah,  intended 
to  remain  with  the  sick  woman  that  one 


night ;  and  a  despatch  had  been  sent 
after  Mrs.  Dawkes,  who  might  be  ex- 
pected to  return  on  the  morrow.  Alto- 
gether, what  with  one  untoward  event 
and  another,  Caroline's  second  marriage 
did  not  seem  to  have  been  inaugurated 
happily. 

"  Married  !  To  him — and  in  this 
indecent  haste !  "  Thoma^  Kage  could 
not  help  exclaiming.  "  What  can  have 
induced  it  ?  " 

"  Induced  it  !  "  wrathfully  echoed 
Mrs.  Garston.  "  Why,  his  persuasive 
tongue,  his  cajolery — that's  what  has 
induced  it.  Barby  Dawkes,  with  his 
rolling  eyes  and  his  tongue  of  oil  would 
wile  a  door  off  its  hinges.  I  under- 
stand now  the  reason  for  his  burying 
himself  alive  in  the  place,  and  conceal- 
ing it  from  everybody.  I  understand 
why  Keziah  made  a  mystery  of  it  to  me 
and  pretended  that  the  place  was  in 
Wales,  and  she  couldn't  pronounce  the 
name.  He  has  been  at  Chilling  all  the 
while,  practising  his  arts  on  George 
Canterbury's  widow." 

Thomas  Kage,  standing  against  th*1. 
window  and  looking  dreamily  out,  re- 
membered how  he  had  heard  the  news 
of  her  first  marriage  in  this  selfsame 
spot.  This  did  not  shake  him  as  that 
had  done  ;  proving  how  well  time  had  ex- 
ercised its  healing  properties.  Brought 
face  to  face  with  her  the  night  that 
they  stood  together  lately  at  the  Rock, 
some  of  the  old  passion  cropped  up  in 
his  heart,  and  it  had  almost  seemed  to 
him  that  he  loved  her  as  of  yore  ;  in 
that  hour  of  sentiment,  when  practical 
reality  was  lost  sight  of  in  romance,  it 
could  scarcely  have  been  otherwise. 
All  his  present  grief  was  felt  for  Caro- 
line, and  it  was  intensely  keen.  He 
saw,  with  a  certainty  so  great  as  to  par- 
take of  the  nature  of  prevision,  that  this 
marriage  was  nearly  the  worst  mistake 
she  could  possibly  have  made. 

Mrs.  Garston  rose  from  her  chair  and 
came  towards  him,  tapping  his  arm  with 
her  forefinger,  her  eyes  and  face  almost 
solemnly  earnest. 

"  Look  you,  Thomas, — this  marriage 
will  not  bring  Barby  good.  It  has  been 
brought  about  by  deceit.  He  has  been 
deceiving  her  all  along  as  to  himself,  his 
character,  his  means  ;  he  has  been  mis- 
erably  deceiving     that     unhappy    child 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


1C3 


Belle  Annesley.  Grand  stroke  of  for- 
tune though  it  may  be  in  his  opinion,  it 
will  never  bring  him  good." 

"  I  am  sure  it  will  not  bring  her 
good,"  cried  Thomas  Kage  impetuously. 

■"  I  know  now  what  his  game  was. 
He  has  been  playing  fast  and  loose  with 
Belle,  intending  to  take  her  if  the  richer 
scheme  failed.  I  know  now  why  he 
wanted  his  time  to  consider  of  it ;  and 
who  he  meant  when  he  asked  me  if  I 
would  make  the  same  terms  if  he  mar- 
ried another.  Ah,  ha,  Mr.  Barby  ;  }7ou 
would  afterwards  have  persuaded  me  it 
was  my  deafness  that  heard  the  question 
amiss  !  You  and  Keziah  have  been  act- 
ing together  to  deceive  me  and  gain  your 
ends :  it  may  not  serve  you  much  in  the 
long-run." 

Thomas  Kage  made  no  answer. 

"  She  has  got  a  wagon-load  of  wealth, 
hut  he'll  get  through  as  much  as  he  can 
of  it,"  proceeded  the  shrewd  old  lady. 
"  I've  never  had  much  love  for  Barby,  or 
Keziah  either;  I  dislike  them  now. 
What  have  they  cared  for  playing  with 
the  fe-elings  of  Belle,  so  that  their  turn 
was  served  ?  He  liked  her  too,  he  did. 
And  it  is  not  Mrs.  Canterbury  he  has 
abandoned  the  girl  for,  but  Mrs.  Canter- 
bury's money.  Old  Canterbury  was  a 
fool  ever  to  leave  her  such  a  prey." 

Very  true.  From  first  to  last  the  will 
seemed  to  have  brought  nothing  but  ill. 
Last  ?     The  last  was  not  come  yet. 

"  I'm  sorcy  for  the  poor  old  woman, 
Thomas.  It  seems  she  has  got  some 
feeling,  for  all  her  affected  folly.  You 
should  have  seen  her  the  da}T  she  came 
to  me — with  her  painted  cheeks  and  her 
girl's  white  bonnet  and  flowers  ;  and  her 
palsied  head  nodding  nineteen  to  the 
dozen  over  all.  She  brought  in  a  fan 
and  a  cargo  of  smelling-bottles — it's  as 
true  as  that  I'm  telling  it.  I'm  afraid, 
too,  I  misled  her — saying  that  it  was 
Belle  Annesley  Barby  was  going  to  mar- 
ry ;  but  then  you  see,  I  thought  it  was. 
0,  but  they  are  crafty,  he  and  Keziah  ! 
But  for  hoodwinking  me,  and  causing 
me  to  say  what  I  did,  Mrs.  Kage  might 
have  gone  back  at  once  to  Chilling,  and 
stopped  the  marriage." 

"  Yes,  it  might  have  been  so,"  Thomas 
acknowledged.  But  he  remembered  what 
he  himself  had  told  Caroline  of  Barnaly 
Dawkes,  and  therefore  he  felt  that  she 


was  almost  as  much  to  blame  as  he. 
What  infatuation  could  have  blinded 
her  ? 

"  And  now  I'll  go,"  said  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton,  "  And,  Thomas,  you'd  better  call  in 
at  Belle  Annesley's  and  break  the  news 
to  her.  It  will  be  a  blow  ;  mind  you 
that.  Better  not  let  it  come  upon  her 
suddenly.  I'm  sorry  for  the  child.  So 
long  as  she  was  no  better  than  a  stage 
dancing-girl,  flirting  with  every  man  she 
came  near,  I'd  have  nothing  to  say  to  her 
except  abuse  ;  but  she  was  wise  in  time, 
and  put  all  that  aside.  You  break  it  to 
her ;  you  know  how  to  do  such  things  ; 
and  so  did  your  mother  before  you." 

"  I  shall  not  be  able  to  leave  my  cham- 
bers until  late  in  the  day." 

"  Very  well ;  it  will  keep.  Dickey 
Dunn  and  his  wife  are  away,  and  there's 
nobody  else  would  be  likely  to  tell  her. 
For  the  matter  of  that,  I  don't  suppose 
it's  known  to  a  soul  in  London  except 
you  and  me.  There'll  be  a  flaming  par- 
agraph in  the  Times  to-morrow,  as  there, 
was  last  time  she  had  a  wedding,  but  it 
couldn't  be  got  in  to-day.  0,  Barby 
Dawkes  is  a  crafty  one  !  " 

Seizing  Thomas  Kage's  arm,  Mrs. 
Garston  moved  a  step  towards  the  door. 
Suddenly  she  dropped  it  again. 

"  You  are  trustee  to  the  child's  money 
I  think,  Thomas?" 

"  Yes." 

"Take  you  good  care  of  it  then,  or 
Barb}7  wilh-be  too  many  for  3rou.  He'd 
wring  the  heart  out  of  a  live  man,  if  it 
were  made  of  gold." 

Thomas  Kage  smiled  ;  but  there  was 
nevertheless  a  very  determined  tone  in 
his  voice  as  he  gave  his  answer. 

"  So  long  as  I  am  in  trust,  he  shall 
never  wring  a  sixpence  out  of  me  be- 
longing to  the  boy,  Mrs.  Garston.  Re- 
ly upon  that." 

Mrs.  Garston  nodded  with  some  satis- 
faction ;  and  stood  to  take  a  look  from 
the  window.  The  river  flowed  on  drear- 
ily, the  grass  looked  poor,  even  Mr. 
Broom's  chrysanthemums,  dying  away, 
had  a  sombre  look  as  of  the  dead. 

"  It's  a  dull  look  out,  Thomas.  I  think 
I'd  rather  see  plain  bricks-and- mortar." 

"  All  things  look  dull  on  these  dark 
November  days.  You  should  see  it  in 
the  spring  sunshine." 

"  I  can't  think,  for  my  part,  how  old 


164 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


Broom  gets  his  flowers  to  such  perfection. 
They  must  have  been  a  show  a  month 
ago." 

"  Indeed  they  were  ;  a  very  fine  one." 

"  I'll  go,  Thomas,  now.  I  suppose 
I'm  only  hindering  you.  Show  me 
where  you  sleep  first.'' 

He  opened  the  door  of  his  bed-room, 
and  Mrs.  Garston  and  her  stick  marched 
round  it,  making  her  comments. 

"  Not  bad  for  a  makeshift ;  sheets  and 
counterpane  a  tolerable  color  ;  places  ti- 
dy.    Who  makes  your  bed,  Thomas?" 

"  A  woman  comes  to  do  all  I  want. 
She  is  the  bo}''s  mother." 

"Does  she  shake  up  the  feathers 
well  ?  Some  of  'em  are  too  lazy  to  give 
it  more  than  a  turn  and  a  push." 

"  It's  a  mattress,"  he  answered,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Ah,  that  was  one  of  Lady  Kage's 
crotchets,  I  remember  —  mattresses. 
Well,  I'm  glad  to  see  that  there's  some 
approach  to  comfort  for  you,  Thomas ; 
but  you'd  be  better  off  in  your  own 
home." 

"  Indeed  I  am  glad  that  Mr.  Rash- 
btirn  has  remained  my  tenant  so  long. 
The  lease  will  be  out  next  year,  Mrs. 
Garston — " 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  that  ?  " 
was  the  interruption.  "Mine  will  be 
out  as  well  as  yours." 

"  And  I  am  not  sure  but  I  shall  give 
it  up,"  he  added.  "A  single  man  does 
not  need  a  house  of  that  sort." 

"  Give  it  up,  will  you  ?  Just  as  you 
please,  Thomas  Kage.  Your  mother 
thought  }Tou'd  be  a  good  son  and  neigh- 
bor to  me  ;  but  her  wishes  and  mine 
don't  go  for  much,  I  see." 

"  Indeed  they  do,  dear  Mrs.  Garston." 

"  Indeed  they  don't.  Would  you  ever 
have  gone  out  of  your  house,  else,  and 
let  it  to  strangers  ?  " 

She  walked  rapidly  through  the  rooms 
as  she  spoke,  ungraciously  accepting  his 
arm  at  the  stairs.  Mr.  Kage  helped 
her  into  her  carriage — to  the  admiration 
of  a  small  collection  of  urchins,  who 
had  assembled  to  stare  at  the  equipage 
and  the  attire  of  the  imposing  footman. 

"  Good-bye,  Thomas  Kage.  You'll 
come  in  to  dinner,  and  tell  me  how  the 
child  takes  it."  And  he  nodded  assent 
as  the  carriage  rolled  off. 

Mr.  Kage  did  not  by  any  means  like 
his  task  ;  for  he  knew  he  should  inflict 


pain.  But  he  accepted  it  as  a  duty. 
Some  one  would  have  to  be  the  inflictor 
— better  himself  than  a  stranger. 

He  did  not  get  up  westward  until 
long  after  dusk  had  set  in,  which  came 
on  early  that  gloom)'  day.  Belle  Amies- 
ley,  quite  unconscious  of  the  shock  that 
was  in  store  for  her,  was  at  that  time  in 
her  mother's  chamber.  Mrs.  Annesley, 
in  an  invalid  wrapper,  her  feet  stretched 
out  to  the  warm  fire,  had  dozed  off  in 
her  easy-chair.  Belle,  seated  on  a  low 
stool  on  the  other  side,  was  indulging 
herself  with  a  peep  at  Barnaby  Dawkes's 
last  letter,  not  yet  a  fortnight  old,  hold- 
ing the  pages  noiselessly  to  the  fire- 
light, when  a  servant  came  in  and  said 
Mr.  Kage  was  below.  The  noise,  slight 
though  it  was,  aroused  the  sleeper  ;  and 
Belle,  as  if  by  magic,  had  nothing  at  all 
in  her  hands. 

"  What  did  Ann  say,  my  dear  ?  " 

u  Mr.  Kage  has  called,  mamma. 
Shall  I  go  down  ?  " 

"  Of  course  ;  he  has  come  to  see  me, 
Belle;  but  I'm  very  tired  to-night.  Per- 
haps, if  he  does  not  mind,  he  would  let 
me  be  until  another  evening." 

"I'll  tell  him,"  said  Belle  gleefully, 
the  soft  passages  of  the  hidden  letter — 
meaning  nothing  to  an  impartial  ear — 
making  melody  in  her  mind.  "But, 
mamma  dear,  I  think  he  might  do  you 
good.  I  am  sure  you  want  rousing,  and 
Thomas  Kage  is  very  gentle." 

"Not  this  evening,  dear;  not  this 
evening.     Is  it  tea-time,  Belle  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  soon.  I'll  dismiss  Mr. 
Kage  in  a  whirlwind  of  hurry,  and  come 
and  make  it." 

"  Ah,  child,  what  spirits  you  have  ! 
And  you  were  for  a  long  while  so  down- 
hearted. I  never  knew  why,  or  what 
the  reason  was  ;  but  you've  got  all  your 
natural  gaiety  back  of  late." 

"  The  reason  ? — why,  mamma,  I  was 
lamenting  for  my  sins  ! "  spoke  Belle, 
with  a  light  laugh.  "  Don't  you  know 
what  a  naughty  girl  I  used  to  be? 
Don't  you  remember  the  uneasiness  I 
gave  you  ?  Sarah  often  said  I  frighten- 
ed her :  but  we  called  her  an  old  maid 
in  those  days." 

Mrs.  Annesley  was  looking  at  her 
daughter.  The  ga}T  tone,  the  glad  coun- 
tenance, the  dainty  dress — a  pale-blue 
gleaming  silk  —  all  told  of  a  mind  at 
rest  within. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


165 


"What  are  you  dressed  for,  child  ?  " 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Lowther's  night." 

"  To  be  sure.     You  are  going  there." 

"  But  not  for  ages  yet,  mamma.  I 
shall  have  tea  with  you  first,  and  go  in 
at  my  leisure ;  seven  o'clock  or  so.  The 
children  won't  leave  till  nine  or  ten. 
Perhaps  Thomas  Kage  has  come  to  go 
with  me.     I  never  thought  of  that." 

Glancing  at  her  pretty  self  in  the 
glass,  touching  her  golden  hair  and  the 
blue  ribbons  that  mingled  with  it — for 
Miss  Belle  was  a  vain  little  coquette  still 
at  heart — she  ran  lightly  down.  Thom- 
as Kage  Was  standing  by  the  dining- 
room  fire. 

"  Have  you  come  to  accompany  me  to 
Mrs.  Lowther's  ? "  she  asked,  as  he 
shook  hands. 

"  To  Mrs.  Lowther's  ?     No." 

"  She  has  a  child's  .part}''  to-night.  I 
shall  make  mamma's  tea  and  take  some 
with  her  before  I  go  in.  Perhaps  you 
came  to  see  mamma,  then  ?  But  she  is 
tired  :  she  has  been  very  low  and  weak 
all  the  afternoon." 

"  No,  not  your  mamma.  My  visit  is 
to  you,  Belle." 

He  had  never  smiled  once  :  tone  and 
face  were  alike  remarkably  grave.  She 
could  but  notice  it ;  and  one  of  those  in- 
stincts of  ill,  that  perhaps  we  have  all 
experienced,  stole  over  her. 

"  Have  you  brought  me  any  bad  ti- 
dings, Thomas  ? "  she  asked,  calling 
him  by  the  familiar  name,  as  she  had 
done  before  at  earnest  moments.  "  Mrs. 
Garston  is  not  ill  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Garston  is  quite  well.  She 
has  had  some  news  from  the  country  to- 
day, and  I  —  I  have  come  to  tell  you 
what  it  is." 

"  Good  news,  or  bad  ?  " 

"  It  relates  to  a  wedding;  but  I  call 
it  bad.     Won't  you  sit  down,  Belle  ?  " 

"  I'd  rather  stand.  I've  been  sitting 
all  day  in  mamma's  room.     Well  ?" 

"  A  friend  of  yours  has  been  getting 
married,  Belle,"  he  continued,  think- 
ing how  very  badly  he  was  performing 
his  task,  now  that  the  critical  moment 
had  come.  "  Can  vou  guess  who  it 
is?" 

"  A  friend  of  mine  ?  0,  I  can't 
guess.  It's  nobody  that  I  care  much  to 
hear  about,  I  suppose.  I  have  no  very 
close  friends,  Thomas ;  except  married 
ones." 


She  was  perplexingly  unsuspicious. 
Thomas  Kage  did  not  speak  for  a  min- 
ute, and  the  young  lady  took  occasion  to 
call  his  attention  to  her  attire. 

"  Is  not  this  a  lovely  dress  ?  "  pulling 
the  skirt  out  with  her  two  hands  to  show 
its  beauty.  "  If  mamma  were  as  partic- 
ular as  she  used  to  be,  she'd  grumble 
like  anything  at  my  wearing  it  to  a 
child's  part}'.  But  she's  not.  She  says 
I'm  changed  ;  I'm  sure  she  is." 

"  Belle,  I  must  get  my  news  out,"  he 
said  with  sudden  resolution.  "  I  am 
beating  about  the  bush,  my  dear,  be- 
cause I  dislike  to  have  to  give  you  pain. 
Of  all  the  people  in  the  world,  whose 
marriage  would  you  be  the  most  unpleas- 
antly surprised  to  hear  of?  " 

"Of  all  the  people  in  the  world?" 
repeated  Belle,  dropping  her  dress  and 
lifting  her  innocent  face.  "  Do  you 
mean  the  women  ?  " 

"  No  ;  the  men." 

"  O,  I— I  don't  know." 

The  color  was  beginning  to  flush  her 
face,  her  voice  to  hesitate.  But  still 
Belle  had  not  the  least  suspicion  of  the 
astounding  news.  To  connect  any  one 
in  ideal  marriage  now  with  Barnaby 
Dawkes  was  simply  impossible,  unless  it 
had  been  herself.  Looking  at  Thomas 
Kage  from  a  hopeless  sea  of  mist,  the 
notion  suddenly  flashed  over  her  that 
some  harm  had  happened  to  the  gallant 
gentleman. 

"  Have  you — come  to  tell  me  anything 
bad  about — about  Captain  Dawkes  ?  " 
she  timidly  whispered,  hanging  her  head. 

"  You  may  call  it  bad.  I  would  not 
pain  you  with  it  if  I  could  help,  Belle." 

"  He  was  not  in  that — 0  Mr.  Kage, 
there  was  an  awful  railway  accident  in 
the  Times  this  morning !  He  was  not 
in  that?" 

"  No,  no.  Captain  Dawkes  has  been 
behaving  like  a  villain :  it  is  neither 
more  nor  less.  Can't  you  take  my  hint, 
child?" 

Belle's  face  was  growing  whiter  than 
chalk. 

"  You  must  tell  me,  please,"  came 
from  her  trembling  lips. 

"  Dawkes  is  married." 

0,  the  sound  of  anguish  that  broke 
from  that  poor  girl's  heart !  Mr.  Kage 
thought  she  was  going  to  faint,  and  threw 
his  arm  round  her. 

"  My  dear  child,  be  calm.     You    see 


166 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


now  how  utterly  unworthy  he  has  always 
been  of  you." 

"  Will  you  please  put  me  in  a  chair  ?  " 
she  gently  said. 

He  was  just  in  time.  She  did  not 
quite  faint,  ouly  lay  like  a  dead  weight 
for  some  minutes,  and  then  her  heart  be- 
gan to  beat  frightfully.  Thomas  Kage 
would  not  call  assistance,  for  her  sake. 
Presently  she  sat  up,  trying  to  be  brave, 
and  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand. 
He  drew  his  chair  close. 

"  Now  tell  me  all  about  it,  please.  I 
must  know.     Whom  has  he  married  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Canterbury  of  the  Rock." 

"  Mrs.  Canterbury  of  the  Rock  !  "  al- 
most shrieked  the  girl  in  her  surprise. 
"  0 — then — it  may  be  for  her  money.  It 
— may  not — have  been — for  love." 

"  Be  you  very  sure  that  money  would 
outweigh  love  in  his  estimation  any  day," 
spoke  Mr.  Kage  with  scornful  emphasis. 

"  But  she  is  young,  and  very  lovely," 
came  the  bitter  rejoinder,  the  one  grain 
of  comfort  losing  itself  in  torment. 
"Nearly  as  young  as  I  am." 

Mr.  Kage  took  the  listless,  trembling 
hands  in  his,  speaking  gently.  You 
must  regard  me  as  a  brother,  Belle, — 
and  pour  out  your  soul's  trouble  to  me. 
It  will  make  it  easier  for  you  to  bear.  I 
went  through  the  same  ordeal  ouce  my- 
self, child,  and  can  give  you  back  sympa- 
thy for  sympathy,  sigh  for  sigh.  I  was 
the  fittest  person  to  break  this  to  you — 
and  badly  enough  I've  done  it  —  but  I 
knew  I  should  be  more  welcome  than  a 
stranger.  All  that  you  are  suffering  I 
suffered  :  suffered  for  years." 

Belle  bent  her  head  and  let  her  cold 
forehead  rest  a  moment  on  Mr.  Kage's 
hands  as  they  held  hers.  It  was  a  token 
that  she  understood  and  thanked  him. 

"  Was  it  for  her  ?  I  can  feel  more  at 
ease  if  you  tell  me.  We  will  keep  each 
other's  secret  for  ever." 

"  Yes,  it  was." 

"  I  think  I'll  go  to  mamma,  please," 
she  said,  attempting  to  rise ;  and  ner 
bosom  was  heaving,  and  her  voice  seemed 
to  have  lost  its  life.  But  Mr.  Kage  de- 
tained her. 

"  An  instant,  while  I  speak  to  you  of 
Barnaby  Dawkes.  I  can  now  give  you 
my  opinion  freely.  While  there  was  a 
possibility  that — that  a  nearer  tie  might 
sometime  exist  between  you,  my  tongue 
was  tied." 


"  You  have  never  thought  well  of 
him." 

"Annabel,  there  exists  not  a  man  in 
the  world  whose  conduct  I  think  much 
worse  of  than  I  do  of  his.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  he  has  the  smallest  sense  of 
honor.  He  is  a  false,  pitiful,  self-indul- 
gent coward.  Had  you  married  him,  I 
feel  persuaded  he  would  have  made  your 
life  a  misery." 

"  And  she  ?     Will  hers  be  that  ?  " 

"  I  fear  so  ;  but  in  a  less  degree,  per- 
haps, than  yours  would  have  been.  With 
her  vast  wealth  they  can  live  as  fashiona- 
ble people — he  going  his  way,  she  hers." 

A  moment's  pause.  WTas  Belle  about 
to  faint  again  ?  Her  wan  face  suggested 
it.  Thomas  Kage  rose,  holding  her  hands 
still  and  bending  over  her. 

"  My  dear,  believe  me,  and  try  to  real- 
ise what  I  say  to  your  own  heart.  A 
marriage  with  Barnaby  Dawkes  would 
have  been  nothing  but  a  great  misfor- 
tune. Take  comfort.  Your  pain  just 
now  is  difficult  to  bear,  but  I  think  you 
will  be  able,  regarding  him  as  entirely 
lost  to  you,  to  throw  it  off  day  by  day. 
I  had  to  do  it." 

She  wrung  his  hands  with  a  lingering 
grasp,  and  turned  to  quit  the  room.  As 
he  was  opening  the  door  for  her,  she 
stopped. 

"  I  cannot  go  to  Mrs.  Lowther's.  Do 
you  mind  telling  her  ?  Say — say — O 
Thomas,  I  don't  know  what  you  can  say! 
I  had  so  faithfulty  promised  to  go." 

"  I  will  say  that  Mrs.  Annesley  is  very 
tired  to-night,  and  you  do  not  care  to 
come  out.  Leave  it  to  me.  God  bless 
and  comfort  you,  child  !  " 

She  went  straight  to  her  own  chamber 
— not  at  present  was  she  fit  for  mortal 
eyes — and  there  she  strove  to  battle  out 
the  first  ful-y  of  the  pitiless  storm.  Des- 
olation !  desolation  !  Amidst  all  the 
tumult  of  her  unhappy  heart,  Annabel 
Annesle}^  was  conscious  that  it  would  be 
nothing  less  for  ever. 

When  she  emerged  from  the  room,  her 
silken  robe  had  been  replaced  by  one 
plain  and  soft,  the  blue  ribbons  were  no 
longer  in  her  hair.  There  was  no  emo- 
tion visible,  no  sign  left  of  the  anguish 
she  had  passed  through  ;  her  face  and 
herself  were  alike  strangely  quiet. 

"  My  love,  how  long  you  have  been  !  " 
said  Mrs.  Annesley,  glancing  at  the  yet 
unused  tea-tray  that  waited  on  the  table. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


167 


"  I  am  very  sorry,  mamma.  You  shall 
liave  }our  tea  in  one  minute.  I  have 
been  talcing  my  dress  off." 

The  tone  of  the  voice  seemed  changed; 
it  was  so  meekly  subdued  as  to  sound 
like  one  of  despair.  Mrs.  Annesley 
glanced  at  Belle  busy  with  the  teacups, 
and  noted  the  change  of  attire. 

"  Why,  what's  that  for  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  to  go  to  Mrs.  Lowther's, 
after  all.  I  will  stay  with  you  instead, 
mamma." 

Her  mother  alone  henceforth.  Belle 
had  nothing  else  left  in  life  to  cherish 
now. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AT    MRS.    RICHARD    DUNN'S. 

Another  j'ear  had  come  in,  and  was 
coursing  onwards.  The  sweet  Ma}r  flow- 
ers were  above  ground,  the  May  sunshine 
was  making  gay  even  London  streets  ; 
those  fine  white  houses  in  Paradise  - 
square  seemed  ablaze  with  its  light. 

In  one  of  the  best  of  the  said  houses, 
the  one  owned  by  Richard  Dunn,  there 
sat,  in  what  is  called  an  American  chair, 
a  young  girl  in  deep  mourning,  who  was 
coughing  sadby.  Her  face,  surrounded 
by  its  golden  hair,  was  painfully  thin, 
her  form  shadowy.  She  was  tired  of  sit- 
ting by  the  fire,  and  had  dragged  the 
chair  to  the  window  to  sit  in  the  sun- 
shinev  You  would  scarcely  have  known 
her  for  the  Belle  Annesley  of  six  months 
before. 

Mrs.  Annesley  had  died  in  March. 
The  home  was  broken  up  ;  and  Belle, 
with  her  portion  of  three  hundred  a-year, 
had  been  staying  since  with  her  cousin, 
Mrs.  Richard  Dunn.  Where  her  home 
would  eventually  be  fixed  was  not  de- 
cided ;  all  concerned  wTere  content  to 
leave  it  to  the  future.  It  was  proposed 
that  in  the  autumn  Belle  should  go  on  a 
visit  to  her  brother  in  the  West  Indies, 
and  so  avoid  the  cold  of  the  next  English 
winter,  for  her  chest  seemed  delicate. 

Her  chest  seemed  delicate  :  it  was 
said  from  one  to  another.  The  girl  was 
wasting  away  to  death  before  their  ej-es, 
and  yet  it  was  all  they  saw !  "  She 
coughed  too  much,  and  her  chest  was 
weak,  and  she  grew  thin  grieving  for  hex 


mother  !  "  0,  but  they  were  all  blind 
together. 

The  first  to  see  any  cause  for  appre- 
hension was  Mrs.  Garston  ;  what  was 
there  that  the  keen  old  eyes  did  not  see  ? 
Belle — poor,  sick,  weary,  hopeless,  griev- 
ing child — had  been  strange]}'  averse  to 
going  out  for  a  long  while.  Before  her 
mother  died,  the  plea  of  remaining  with 
her  was  an  excuse  ;  since  her  death,  that 
had  been  the  plea.  But  Mrs.  Garston 
drove  one  morning  to  Richard  Dunn's, 
gave  them  a  sound  trimming  all  round 
for  yielding  to  Miss  Belle's  inertness,  and 
carried  the  young  lady  off  with  her  for 
the  rest  of  the  day  ;  at  least,  until  dusk 
approached.  She  sent  her.  back  in  the 
carriage  then,  telling  her  to  keep  the 
windows  shut ;  and  when  Thomas  Kage 
came  as  usual  in  the  evening,  abruptly 
met  him  with  the  announcement  that 
Belle  Annesley  was  dying.  Mr.  Kage, 
seeing  Belle  often,  for  he  generally  went 
in  to  Richard  Dunn's  two  or  three  even- 
ings in  the  week,  rather  disputed  this  ; 
and  it  aroused  Mrs.  Garston's  ire.  Con- 
tradiction always  did.  He  had  certainly 
thought  Belle  looking  ill  when  he  got 
home  from  circuit,  but  he  attributed  it  to 
her  mother's  death,  and  perhaps  some- 
what to  the  mourning  robes, 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  saw  her  by 
daylight  ?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Garston. 

Thomas  Kage  could  not  remember. 
Not,  he  thought,  since  last  winter. 

"  If  you  are  not  entirely  overdone  with 
work  to-morrow,  you  just  quit  it  for  an 
hour,  Thomas  Kage.  To  hear  you  talk 
of  the  amount  of  business  on  your  shoul- 
ders, one  would  think  you  must  be  mak- 
ing your  fortune  as  quick  as  it'ud  take 
an  air-balloon  to  get  from  here  to  Jer- 
icho." 

"  I  have  to  do  a  great  deal  of  work  for 
a  very  little  pay,"  he  answered  laugh- 
ingly. "  It  is  only  the  great  guns  amid 
us  who  make  fortunes." 

"  You  '  don't  see  much  change  in 
her!'  she  has  'a  bright  color  of  an 
evening!'  You  are  a  fool,  Thomas 
Kage  !  " 

"  But—" 

"  Now  don't  you  begin  a  dispute. 
Anybody,  not  a  fool,  would  know  that 
invalids  like  Belle  always  do  pick  up  in 
an  evening.  If  you  can  spare  a  couple 
of  hours  of  that  precious  time  of  yours, 
you  go  and  see  her  to-morrow  by  day- 


168 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


light,  and  then  tell  me  whether  I'm  right 
or  wrong.     Will  you  do  this?" 

"  Yes  I  will." 

And  accordingly  on  this  very  da}7, 
when  Belle  had  just  drawn  her  chair 
into  the  sunshine  in  Mrs.  Dunn's  hand- 
some drawing-room,  Thomas  Kage  came 
in.  He  talked  of  indifferent  matters 
with  as  cool  an  air  as  if  he  were  con- 
scious of  no  secret  motive  for  calling  ; 
chiefly  to  Mrs.  Dunn  and  Mrs.  Dunn's 
bab}T,  a  little  damsel  who  sat  on  her 
mamma's  knee,  fiercely  biting  away  at  a 
coral  and  flinging  her  small  fat  arms 
about. 

But  he  took  the  opportunity  to  glance 
between  whiles  at  the  rocking-chair  op- 
posite him,  and  at  her  who  sat  in  it. 
Wan,  white,  shadowy ;  her  blue  eyes 
weary,  her  golden  hair  somewhat  neg- 
lected ;  the  thin  hands  lying  inert  on 
the  black  crape  of  the  lap  ;  so  sat  she. 
A  pang  of  regret  darted  through  Thomas 
Kage; 

"  How  long  has  your  cough  been  so 
troublesome,  Belle?"  he  asked,  as  the 
baby  grew  restless,  and  Mrs.  Dunn  rose 
to  cany  it  about.  Not  that  it  was  a  vi- 
olent cough  ;  but  hacking  and  frequent. 

"  0,  I  don't  know.  I  had  it  last 
spring.  It  went  away  when  the  hot 
weather  came  in." 

"  I  shall  feel  your  pulse,  young  lad}-  ; 
being  a  bit  of  a  doctor." 

He  crossed  over,  and  took  her  hand  in 
his ;  a  hot,  damp,  fragile  hand,  its  palm 
very  pink.  Thomas  Kage  laid  it  down 
again,  and  put  his  gentle  fingers  on  her 
forehead. 

"  I  have  had  a  doctor,"  said  Belle. 
"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dunn  called  in  Dr. 
Tyndal  in  spite  of  my  saj'ing  there  was 
nothing  the  matter  with  me.  There  is 
nothing,  Thomas,  except  the  cough  ; 
and  that  will  go  away  with  the  advent 
of  warm  weather." 

"  What  did  the  doctor  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  Say  !  That  nothing  did  ail  me,  that 
he  could  find  out.  He  says  it  every  time 
he  comes." 

"He  really  does,"  interposed  Mrs. 
Dunn,  jogging  the  baby  in  her  arms  as 
she  spoke.  "  I  tell  him  that  Belle  gets 
thinner,*  but  he  seems  to  think  there  is 
no  cause  for  it.  He  says  he  has  several 
young  patients  suffering  from  coughs; 
through  the  coldness  of  the  spring,  he 
thinks.     Why,  here's  May,  ami  we  have 


no  warm  weather  yet.    If  the  sun  shines, 
it  is  only  with  a  cold  brightness." 

"I  should  say  he  is  a  mufi,"  remark- 
ed Thomas  Kage.  "  The  doctor  I  mean  ; 
not  the  sun." 

Mrs.  Dunn  laughed,  Belle  laughed, 
and  the  laughing  appeared  to  offend  the 
baby,  who  set  up  a  defiant  cry.  Upon 
which  Mrs.  Dunn  left  the  room  to  con- 
sign her  to  ignominy  and  the  nursery. 

"  Belle,"  said  Thomas  Kage  in  a  low 
tender  tone,  seating  himself  near  her  and 
bending  forward,  "you  are  letting  past 
troubles  lay  hold  of  you." 

The  wan  face  became  lovely  with  a 
crimson  flush. 

"  No,"  she  said  evasively  ;  "  no." 

"  Nay,  Belle,  speak  the  truth,  as  to 
your  own  heart.     It  is  so." 

There  was  just  a  little  feeble  battle 
with  the  instinctive  effort  to  maintain 
the  denial,  and  Belle  gave  it  up  for  ever. 
For  a  moment  she  looked  into  the  kind 
dark  eyes,  bent  in  true  concern  upon  her, 
and  then  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  And  if  it  be  so  ?  Will  you  tell  me 
how  I  am  to  help  it  ?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  child — look  up,  Belle  ; 
this  is  serious.  If  you  do  not  make 
head  against  it,  it  will  make  head 
against  you." 

"  Do  you  see  that  I  am  looking  very 
ill?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  I  do.  It  did  not  strike  me 
until  to-day." 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  am  dying?  " 

"  0  Belle,  you  should  not  say  foolish 
things." 

"  But  I  feel  like  it." 

She  was  looking  at  him  now  earnestly, 
and  he  at  her;  her  sad  eyes  wore  a 
strangely  peculiar  light. 

"There's  nothing  to  live  for.  I  have 
felt  that  since — you  know  ;  and  now  that 
mamma  is  gone,  there  is  less  and  less. 
But  it  is  not  that,  Thomas.  Though 
life  had  everything  to  make  me  wish  to 
stay  in  it,  to  strive  to  stay,  I  feel  that  it 
would  be  of  no  use.  It  is  drifting  away 
from  me." 

"  It  is  wrong  of  you  to  think  this." 

"  But  if  it  be  so,  and  if  I  cannot  help 
feeling  and  knowing  that  it  is,  where's 
the  wrong  then  ?  "  she  persisted. 

"  Are  you  conscious  of  any  malady  ?  " 

"  No,  not  of  body.  I  lose  strength, 
and  I  get  thinner  and  thinner  ;  that's 
all." 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY^     WILL. 


1G9 


"  Then  why  should  you  feel  that  you 


are  dying 


?  » 


"  I  don't  mean  dying  yet.  Only  that 
I  shall  never  get  up  again  and  be  as  I 
once  was — as  other  people  are.  Thomas, 
will  you  believS  that  I  have  come  to  long 
for  death  ?  Heaven  only  knows  what  I 
have  gone  through — what  my  pain  has 
been." 

"  You  told  me  a  minute  ago  that  you 
had  no  pain." 

"Neither  have  I  of  body — except  the 
cough." 

He  took  her  left  hand  very  tenderly 
within  his,  and  stroked  it,  as  a  mother 
might  soothe  a  sick  child.  The  right 
hand  was  raised,  shading  her  face. 

"  The  pain  and  anguish  are  killing  me, 
Thomas.  I  cannot  help  it.  Indeed,  I 
did  try  to  take  your  advice  to  throw 
things  off,  and  to  forget  gradually  ;  but 
I  could  not  do  it.  I'm  afraid  I  was  not 
strong,  and  it  has  worn  me  out." 

"  You  must  make  a  true,  earnest, 
prayerful  effort,  once  for  all.  and  rally." 

-  I  have  not  prayed  to  rail}7.  I  have 
prayed  for  death  —  but  only  if  God 
pleases.  There  is  no  sin  in  that.  I  be- 
lieve He  sees  that  I  could  not  live  on 
with  my  broken  heart." 

"  Hearts  don't  break  so  easily,  my  dear 
girl.  I  once  thought  mine  had  snapped 
right  asunder,  but  I  fancy  it  is   whole 

yet." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  It  has  been  breaking  ever  since  that 
time — breaking  and  breaking,  night  and 
day.  I  did  not  think  any  one  could  go 
through  what  I  have,  and  live.  I  could 
not  go  through  it  again." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Belle,  this  state  of  mind 
is  sinful,"'  he  rejoined,  really  not  know- 
ing what  to  say  that  would  make  any 
impression  on  her. 

'•  I  hope  not.  The  horrible  pain  is 
upon  me  always,  Thomas,  always.  It  is 
wearing  out  my  heart;  it  is  killing  me  ; 
it  prevents  any  desire  to  live.  If  the 
pain  were  lifted  off  me — and  0,  how 
willingly  I  would  lift  it  if  I  could  ! — 
then  I  should  be  happy  again,  and  wish 
to  live  on  ;  but  I  cannot  lift  it ;  it  is  not 
in  my  power:  instead  of  leaving  me,  it 
seems  only  to  grow  more  real.  Don't 
you  see  ?  I  and  my  will  are,  as  it  were, 
helpless." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  he  murmured,  his  tone 
partaking  of  the  pain  she  spoke  of. 


"  It  is  making  me  wish  for  death, 
Thomas.  There  can  be  no  other  relief. 
0,  I  know  how  good  you  are,  and  how 
good  Lady  Kage  was  ;  but  don't  blame 
me,  please  don't  blame  me  !  " 

"  Blame  you  !  "  he  interjected  feel- 
ingly. 

"  And  sometimes  I  think  that  God  is 
not  blaming  me  ;  that  He  is  sending  all 
this  in  love.  I  was  such  a  wicked  girl, 
you  know  :  doing  what  I  could  to  plague 
my  mother,  to  ridicule  and  annoy  every-  ' 
body.  It  was  well  that  punishment 
should  come  to  me — that  I  should  see 
my  sin.  With  heaven  in  view,  Thomas, 
it  seems  like  sin  now." 

"  Is  heaven  in  view  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  must  be,"  she  softly  said. 
"  I  think  God  means  me  to  see  it,  and  to 
long  for  it.  I  have  taken  lately  to, dream 
of  being  in  the  sweetest  place  ;  where 
the  sense  of  perfect  rest  is  upon  me,  and 
pain  and  tears  are  over;  the  light  is 
beautiful,  softer  and  brighter  than  any- 
thing on  earth,  and  the  flowers  are 
sweeter.  It  is  heaven,  nothing  less. 
When  I  wake  up,  and  my  real  pain  rushes 
back  on  me,  I  stretch  out  my  arms  feebly 
to  God,  and  ask  Him  to  please  to  take  me 
to  it.     I  think  He  will." 

Thomas  Kage  sat  for  an  instant  in 
silence.     This  was  difficult  to  deal  with. 

"Listen  to  me,  Belle.  If  you  mean 
that  you  really  and  truly  think  you  are 
in  danger  of  death,  it  must  be  seen  to. 
We  must  call  a  consultation." 

"  A  consultation  !  It  would  be  worse 
than  useless.  What  I  am  suffering 
from  is  nothing  within  the  scope  of  a 
ph}Tsician.  I  am  just  drifting  out  of  life 
without  any  malady — except  that  of  a 
broken  heart." 

"  But—" 

"  Thomas,  believe  me,"  she  earnestly 
pursued,  "  nothing  can  be  done  for  me  ; 
there  is  no  disease  to  work  upon.  If  you 
called  in  all  the  doctors  in  London,  they 
could  say  no  more  than  that.  Dr.  Tyn- 
dal  sees  me  every  other  day  :  he  will 
preach  to  you  by  the  hour  about  want  of 
'  tone,'  and  spring's  deceitful  winds,  and 
young  ladies'  fancies;  and  finally  tell 
you  there's  nothing  else  the  matter  with 
me.  Go  and  ask  him.  Many  a  girl  has 
suffered,  and  wasted  away  to  death  as  I 
am  wasting,  and  the  doctors  have  never 
known  what  she  died  of.  It  is  not  their 
skill  that  is  in  fault." 


170 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


"Granted;  but—" 

"  And  mind,  Thomas,  you  must  not 
speak  of  this ;  you  know  that  there's  no 
one  else  in  the  wide  world  that  I  would 
breathe  it  to.  I  could  not  have  told  you 
but  for  what  you  disclosed  to  me  that 
night.     We—" 

A  servant  came  in,  bringing  the  cards 
of  visitors.  Not  seeing  his  mistress,  he 
presented  them  to  Miss  Annesley. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  they  must  come  up," 
she  answered,  wishing  the  house  was  her 
own,  so  that  she  could  be  denied. 

As  the  man  left  the  room  again,  she 
cast  her  eyes  carelessly  on  the  cards,  and 
started  up  with  a  faint  cry.  Thomas 
Kage  bent  to  look. 

Captain  Dawkes — Mrs.  Dawkes. 

Since  the  inauspicious  marriage  (if 
you  knew  all,  my  reader,  3'ou  would 
indorse  the  word)  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Dawkes  the  previous  November,  they 
had  chiefly  resided  at  the  Rock.  Mrs. 
Kage  recovered  in  a  degree  from  her 
attack  of  paratysis,  but  only  to  be  more 
battered  in  look  than  ever,  more  dilap- 
idated in  constitution  ;  and  to  pay  her  a 
visit  daily  Mrs.  Dawkes  found  an  intol- 
erably wearisome  task.  How  Captain 
Dawkes  contrived  to  reassure  his  wife  on 
the  score  of  his  accredited  ill-doings,  'he 
best  knew  ;  woman  is  credulous,  and  man 
is  wary.  He  did  contrive  to  do  it ;  and 
after  the  accusations  in  the  vestry,  Mrs. 
Dawkes  heard  no  more.  Those  who 
would  have  spoken  the  truth  to  warn  her 
from  the  man,  found  their  lips  sealed  as 
soon  as  he  had  become  her  husband.  If 
Mrs.  Dawkes  had  cause  for  any  suspi- 
cion, it  was  confined  to  her  own  breast. 
She  had  committed  the  great  impru- 
dence of  marrying  without  having  her 
available  money  settled  on  herself,  and 
if  Captain  Dawkes  made  free  with  it, 
why  the  law  would  have  said  it  was  his 
own  to  do  with  as  he  pleased.  They 
went  in  for  a  vast  deal  of  show  and  ex- 
pense ;  and  the  Captain  was  a  gentle- 
man at  large  again,  to  display  his  face 
in  the  London  world  at  will,  and  get  as 
much  credit  as  lie  chose.  He  had  re-pur- 
chased into  the  army,  and  was  altogether 
grand.  Their  London  house,  the  lease 
of  it  bought  recently,  was  one  of  the 
most  fashionable  mansions  in  Belgravia  ; 
and  Captain  and  Mrs.  Dawkes  had  now 
come  up  to  take  possession  of  it,  with 
the  intention  of  being  a  very  fashionable 


couple.  Caroline  had  always  loved  show 
and  glitter ;  and  it  may  be  she  loved  it 
all  the  better  since  her  heart  had  grown 
a  little  seared  with  a  certain  blight  Fate 
had  cast  upon  it.  But  for  the  cold 
spring,  and  the  rather  delicate  health  of 
little  Tom  Canterbury,  Mrs.  Dawkes  had 
been  up  before  May.  The  Captain  had 
been  a  good  deal  away  from  the  Rock 
himself,  pleading  his  soldier's  duties. 
However,  here  they  were  now  in  London, 
and  had  come  to  make  a  call  on  Mrs. 
Richard  Dunn. 

The  crimson  flush  of  emotion  burn- 
ing in  Belle  Annesley's  cheeks  was  al- 
ready fading  to  an  ashy  whiteness.  She 
had  started  up  to  quit  the  room,  but  the 
sound  of  voices  and  steps  close  outside 
the  door  cut  off  her  escape.  Thomas 
Kage  laid  his  restraining  hand  upon  her 
in  calm  composure,  and  it  almost  seem- 
ed to  give  her  strength. 

"  Be  still.  Annabel.  You  have  noth- 
ing to  do  but  keep  quiet.  I  will  shield 
you." 

And  as  if  to  receive  the  visitors,  Mr. 
Kage  placed  himself  before  her.  Mrs. 
Dunn  unconsciously  helped  matters  by 
coming  in  at  the  moment.  There  was 
greeting  and  much  talking;  and  it  was 
only  when  they  separated  to  place  them- 
selves in  chairs  that  the  invalid  girl  in 
her  deep  mourning  was  perceived. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Annesley  !  —  how  are 
you?"  said  the  Captain,  putting  out 
his  hand  as  eoolty  as  though  he  had 
never  played  fast  and  loose  with  her. 

Caroline  took  a  step  forward  in  curi- 
osity when  she  heard  the  name.  She 
had  never  seen  Belle  Annesley,  but  she 
could  not  forget  that  it  had  been  said 
she  was  Barnaby  Dawkes's  love.  Bar- 
nab}",  when  asked  about  it  by  his  wife 
in  private,  bad  burst  out  laughing  at  the 
very  idea;  had  made  game  over  it,  game 
also  of  Belle.  But  Mrs.  Dawkes  was 
curious,  nevertheless  ;  and  she  came 
across  the  room  to  see. 

Belle  had  risen.  A  fragile  girl  with  a 
mass  of  goldrn  hair,  and  a  transparent 
face  whose  delicate  cheeks  weie  shining 
with  a  hectic  glow.  But  if  Caroline 
had  been  calling  up  incipient  ideas  of 
jealous)',  they  went  out  at  once  as  she 
stood;  for  there  was  something  about 
the  girl  that  seemed  to  say  she  was  nut 
very  long  for  this  world,  and  Carotin'  \s 
heart  filled  itself  with  a  wondrous  pity. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


171 


"Sarah,  is  this  your  cousin?"  she 
asked,  calling  Mrs.  Dunn  by  the  old  fa- 
miliar Christian  name. 

«  Yes.    Miss  Annesley,  Mrs.  Dawkes." 

The  two  had  stood  looking  at  each 
other,  apparently  waiting  for  the  intro- 
duction, or  Mrs.  Dunn  had  surely  never 
been  so  formal  as  to  make  it  She  felt 
a  little  confused  herself,  remembering 
what  Barnaby  Dawkes's  conduct  had 
been. 

Belle  sat  down  again,  her  bosom  heav- 
ing and  fluttering;  the  leaf-like  hectic 
fading  out  of  the  cheeks.  Thomas 
Kage  moved  near  her;  the  Captain 
crossed  over  and  took  a  chair  by  Mrs. 
Dunn. 

"  I  cannot  think  how  it  is  we  never 
met  during  the  six  months  that  I  passed 
in  London,  when  my  boy  was  a  baby," 
began  Caroline,  who  seemed  as  if  she 
could  not  take  her  eyes  off  the  sick  girl. 
"  I  feel  quite  sure  I  never  saw  you. 
We  called  twice  on  Sarah — who  was 
then  staying  with  your  mamma — but  I 
do  not  remember  you  at  all." 

Belle  cast  her  thoughts  back  to  the 
time  spoken  of  by  Mrs.  Dawkes,  in  a 
kind  of  transient  shame.  Too  well  she 
remembered  that  spring  :  it  was  in  the 
very  height  of  her  thoughtless  and  flirt- 
ing days,  when  she  had  no  care  for 
aught  save  her  admirers.  The  advent 
of  Barnaby  Dawkes  and  his  love  had 
not  dawned  then. 

"  I  must  have  happened  to  be  out 
when  you  came,"  she  replied.  "  I 
know  I  once  went  with  mamma  and  Sa- 
rah to  call  on  you  in  Belgrave-square, 
but  you  and  Mr.  Canterbury  were  not 
at  home.  I  was  very  young  then,  and 
mamma  did  not  take  me  out  much. 
But  I  saw  you  once,  Mrs.  Dawkes." 

"  Ah,  you  mean  in  the  old,  old  days 
when  we  were  little  mites  of  children, 
and  you  came  down  to  Chilling  Rectory 
on  a  visit.  That  wras  just  after  mamma 
settled  at  the  place.  Of  course  we  saw 
each  other  then." 

u  No.  I  meant  when  you  were  in 
town.  You  had  been  calling  upon  Mrs. 
Garston,  and  Mr.  Canterbury  was  put- 
ting you  into  the  carriage.  I  stood  in- 
side the  gate  and  watched  yon  away  ; 
but  you  did  not  notice  me,"  added  Belle, 
losing  herself  in  the  reminiscence. 

"  You  don't  seem  well,"  said  Caroline, 
a  little  abruptly.  And  the  remark 
seemed  to  scare  Belle's  senses  away. 


Thomas  Kage  came  to  the  rescue, 
speaking  quietly. 

"I  was  just  telling  Miss  Annesley 
that  her  cough  was  making  her  look 
ill  and  thin  ;  but  she  says  she  had  it 
last  3'ear,  and  only  got  strong  when  the 
warm  weather  came  in.  It  has  been  a 
late  spring." 

It  has  not  been  much  of  a  spring  at 
all,  down  with  us,"  observed  Caroline, 
playing  with  her  warch-chain,  and  never 
looking  at  him  as  she  spoke.  Face  to 
face  with  Thomas  Kage,  it  could  not  be 
but  that  remembrance  should  lie  upon 
her.  "  Little  Tom  has  had  a  cough  too; 
they  think  his  chest  is  weak." 

"  Have  you  brought  him  to  town  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Kage. 

"  What  a  question,  Thomas  !  "  she 
answered,  with  a  laugh  that  seemed  not 
to  be  very  real.  "  As  if  I  should  go 
anywhere  without  my  boy  !  You'll 
come  and  see  him,  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Mamma  says  I  had  a  delicate  chest 
myself  when  I  was  a  child ;  she  was 
always  afraid  for  me.  Papa  died  of 
consumption.  But  I  grew  up  to  be 
strong  and  well,  and  1  don't  see  why 
Tom  should  not." 

"  The  boy  has  always  seemed  to  me 
to  be  a  particularly  healthy  child,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Kage.  "  Though  small  and 
slightly  formed,  he  is  quite  sound." 

"  Of  course  he  is,"  acquiesced  Caro- 
line. "  Captain  Dawkes  says  sometimes 
that  Tom  is  not  strong,  but  I  am  sure  it 
is  all  fancy." 

"  Shall  you  make  a  long  stay  in 
town  ?  " 

"  Until  August,  I  suppose.  I  want 
to  spend  September  on  the  Rhine.  By 
the  way,  can  you  tell  me  whether  Mrs. 
Dunn  is  in  London  ? — Lydia  Canter- 
bury, you  know." 

"  She  is." 

"  The  Miss  Canterburys  are  abroad 
still.  Austin  Rufort  and  his  wife  came 
back  to  the  Rector}7  just  as  we  left  Chil- 
ling. I  did  not  see  them ;  we  crossed 
each  other  on  the  road." 

"  The  Miss  Canterburys  are  in  London, 
staying  with  their  sister,  Mrs.  Dunn," 
spoke  Thomas  Kage.  "  I  seem  to  know 
more  about  your  family  than  you  do, 
Mrs.  Dawkes,"  he  added,  with  a  slight 
laugh. 

Mrs.  Dawkes  bit  her  pretty  lip.  She 
did    not    like    his    calling    her     *'  Mrs. 


172 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


Dawkes,"  or  the  coolly  civil  indifference 
that  characterised  his  tone  and  manner, 
as  if  she  could  never  be  an  object  of  the 
smallest  interest  to  him  henceforth  for 
ever.  Neither  did  she  care  to  hear  that 
the  Miss  Canterbury^  were  in  London. 
A  sense  of  the  wrong  inflicted  on  her 
late  husband's  daughters  lay  dormant 
in  a  remote  corner  of  her  heart  ;  the 
sight  of  them  invariably  woke  it  up, 
and  Caroline  would  rather  have  been 
spared  the  meeting. 

"  0,  staying  with  L}'dia  Dunn,  are 
they  ?     Do  they  look  well  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  them,  Mrs.  Dawkes." 

"  Mrs.  Dawkes  "  again  !  And  Mrs. 
Dawkes  drawing  her  chair  round,  joined 
in  the  conversation  with  her  husband 
and  Mrs.  Richard  Dunn. 

But  Captain  and  Mrs.  Dawkes  soon 
rose.  Perhaps  neither  felt  quite  at 
ease  in  the  present  company.  In  the 
movement,  —  the  slight  bustle  of  the 
farewells, — Captain  Dawkes  got  an  un- 
observed moment  behind  with  Belle. 
Clasping  her  fragile  hand  within  his,  so 
warm  with  strong  life,  he  bent  his  face 
until  it  nearly  touched  hers,  speaking  in 
a  sweet  and  tender  whisper : 

"  Do  not  blame  me  until  you  know 
how  1  was  tried.  The  misery  has  been 
worse  to  me  than  to  you.  Heaven 
bless  you,  Belle  !  " 

And  when  Thomas  Kage  came  back 
across  the  room  to  say  his  own  adieu 
after  they  had  disappeared,  he  wondered 
what  had  come  to  Belle  Annesley.  Her 
blue  eyes  were  shining  as  with  the  light 
of  love ;  the  dead  weariness  had  mo- 
mentarily left  her  face;  and  her  cheeks 
were  bright  with  a  soft  rose  color. 


CHAPTER  XNV. 

AT    THE    FESTIVE    BOARD. 

The  crowded  and  prolonged  season 
gave  no  signs  yet  of  drawing  to  a  close. 
If  the  spring  had  been  cold  and  dull, 
the  summer  was  lovely.  London  was 
very  full  ;  Hyde-park  shone  with  beau- 
ty ;  frivolity  reigned  everywhere. 

Amidst  the  gayest  of  the  gay  were 
Captain  and  Mrs.  Dawkes.  In  their 
fine  mansion  in  Belgravia,  the  lease  of 
which     had     been     recently    purchased, 


they  reigned  a  king  and  queen  of  fash- 
ion, entertaining  frequently  the  world, 
regardless  of  cost.  From  the  state  and 
expense  kept  up,  by  the  wray  the  money 
was  squandered  right  and  left,  it  might 
have  been  thought  their  purse  was  with- 
out end.  The  most  absurd  stories  of 
Mrs.  Canterbury's  wealth  had  flown 
about,  and  society  deemed  her  revenues 
to  be  at  least  regal.  Possibly  in  her  in- 
experience she  fancied  them  so  herself. 

The  Captain  was  in  clover.  Unlim- 
ited wealth  and  a  high  position  amidst 
his  fellow-men,  had  been  the  dream  of 
his  ambition  from  boyhood.  A  dream 
of  fanc}T,  however,  rather  than  of  hope  ; 
for  Barnaby  Dawkes  had  never  thought 
to  be  more  wealthy  than  Mrs.  Garston's 
money  would  have  made  him.  And 
even  that  he  had  not  looked  upon  as  a 
certainty.  Although  Keziah  and  others 
had  told  him  he  was  sure  to  succeed  to 
the  old  lady's  inheritance,  in  his  own 
heart  there  had  always  lain  a  doubt  of 
it.  She  herself  had  never  led  him  to 
expect  it — never  by  a  single  hint ;  on 
the  contrary,  words  had  many  a  time 
fallen  from  her  lips  from  which  he  knew 
he  might  draw  a  totally  opposite  deduc- 
tion. And  therefore  Mr.  Barnaby 
could  never  in  reality  plead  expectations 
as  an  excuse  for  the  spendthrift  ways  he 
took  up.  But  what  was  Mrs.  Garston's 
moderate  wealth  compared  to  this  that 
he  had  come  into  by  his  marriage  with 
Mrs.  Canterbury  ?  Barnaby  Dawkes 
estimated  that  now  much  as  he  did  a 
few  ashes  from  his  cigar.  He  could  at 
length  afford  to  snap  his  fingers  at  the 
old  lady  ;  and  did  so  metaphorical ly. 

To  marry  Barnaby  Dawkes  was  an 
imprudent  step  of  Mrs.  Canterbury's ; 
to  marry  him  in  the  haste  she  did,  and 
without  any  kind  of  settlement,  was 
imprudence  terrible.  For  }rou  see  that 
by  so  doing  all  moneys,  not  secured  to 
her  separate  use  by  her  first  husband, 
passed  into  his  power  ?  Reviewing  this 
desirable  fact  in  his  mind  while  he 
shaved,  the  morning  after  his  marriage, 
complacently  regarding  himself  in  the 
glass,  the  Captain  called  it  a  "  God- 
send." Possibly;  but  he  had  not  the 
sense  to  foresee  that  to  a  man  of  his 
lavish  tastes  and  self-indulgent  habits 
it  might  prove  a  dangerous  one.  He 
paid  his  debts, — more,  were  they,  than 
the  world  or  Keziah    knew  of;    he   re- 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


173 


purchaser!  into  the  arn^;  he  flung  money 
about  as  inclination  dictated,  without 
the  slightest  stint;  and  he  and  his 
wife,  quitting  the  Rock,  set  up  their 
gorgeous  tent  in  Belgravia  for  the  sea- 
son, to  live  on  the  scale  of  princes. 

They  were  a  fashionable  couple  in 
other  respects  as  well  ;  politely  indiffer- 
ent to  each  other,  rather  than  cordial. 
That  Caroline  had  found  out  her  mis- 
t  ,ke  in  mariying  him  was  only  too  prob- 
able ;  and  the  very  listlessness  in  which 
her  daj's  were  passed  caused  her  to  en- 
ter the  more  eagerly  into  gaiety.  If 
she  repented,  she  did  not  show  it ; 
woman-like,  she  buried  it  within  her 
breast ;  and  talked,  and  dressed,  and 
laughed,  and  was  the  gayest  of  the  gay. 
She  liked  the  life  ;  possessing,  in  point 
of  fact,  an  innate  genius  for  it.  A  late 
breakfast  in  the  morning,  she  and  Bar- 
naby lounging  over  it  together,  glancing 
at  their  plans  for  the  day  and  picking 
out  the  most  agreeable  ways  of  killing 
time ;  very  fine  and  fashionable  both, 
in  look  and  manner  and  speech,  and  in- 
tensely heartless  ;  he  away  afterwards, 
she  devouring  some  charming  novel ;  a 
few  select  morning  callers ;  a  grand 
luncheon,  taken  nearly  always  in  com- 
pany ;  the  real  visiting  and  being  visit- 
ed ;  then  going  out  to  buy  dress  and 
flowers  and  sweetmeats — anything  at- 
tractive that  shops  display  ;  the  Park 
next ;  dinner  (always  a  gorgeous  one), 
out  or  at  home ;  the  Opera  and  evening 
assemblies ;  and  to  bed  in  the  morning 
sunlight.  This  was  the  life  ;  it  was,  in 
fact,  nothing  but  a  whirl  of  excitement, 
and  both  Captain  and  Mrs.  Dawkes 
thought  it  paradise.  He,  of  course, 
had  other  pursuits — billiards  and  wine- 
drinking  and  gambling. 

But  it  is  not  entirely  of  Captain  and 
Mrs.  Dawkes  that  this  chapter  must 
treat.  Looking  on  at  all  this  extrava- 
gance and  gaiety  were  the  inmates  of  a 
house  in  a  less  fashionable  quarter,  but 
not  so  very  far  removed  either ;  and 
that  was  Mrs.  Dunn's,  of  Paradise- 
square.  Mrs.  Dunn  had  her  two  sisters 
staying  with  her — Olive  and  Millicent 
Canterbury.  It  was  natural  that  they 
should  see  all  this  lavish  waste  of  money, 
their  money,  with  grievous  heart-burn- 
ing. Yes,  their  money  ;  they  could  not 
but  look  upon  it  as  theirs  still  of  right, 
for    they   had    been    born    to   it.     Who 


were  these  strangers,  these  interlopers, 
Caroline  Dawkes  and  Barnaby  her  hus- 
band, that  they  should  be  revelling  in 
the  sisters'  birthright  ?  Olive  and  Mil- 
licent did  not  suffer  their  lips  to  put  the 
question  even  to  each  other.  Mrs. 
Dunn,  less  reticent,  asked  it  a  dozen 
times  a  day.  But,  like  many  another 
bitter  wrong,  it  had  to  be  endured,  for 
there  was  no  remedy  ;  and  two  of  them 
at  least  strove  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

The  two  houses  kept  up  a  show  of 
friendship.  Stay ;  not  friendship,  ac- 
quaintanceship. Miss  Canterbury  will- 
ed it  so.  It  was  better,  she  urged  ; 
and,  after  all,  what  good  would  be  gain- 
ed by  showing  resentment?  Millicent, 
following  her  eldest  sister's  lead  always, 
acquiesced  without  a  word.  Mrs.  Dunn 
grumblingly  yielded ;  not  to  comply 
with  Olive's  advice,  but  because  in 
her  curiosity  she  would  see  a  little  fur- 
ther into  Captain  and  Mrs.  Dawkes, 
and  the  Captain  and  Mrs.  Dawkes' 
menage.  So  a  call  had  been  exchanged 
twice  or  thrice,  and  now  there  was  going 
to  be  a  dinner.  Caroline  felt  a  kind  of 
uneasiness  in  their  presence  always,  her 
husband  none.  Indeed,  he  personally 
could  not  be  charged  with  offence  to 
them. 

The  fine  June  day  was  drawing,  like 
the  month  itself,  to  a  close,  as  Keziah 
Dawkes  picked  her  wa}'  across  the 
watered  streets  of  Belgravia  to  her 
brother's  residence.  However  gratified 
Barnaby  Dawkes  might  be  with  the 
substantial  good  resulting  from  his  mar- 
riage, Keziah  was  less  so.  In  the  ab- 
stract she  had  not  wished  her  brother  to 
marry  at  all  ;  she  felt,  to  this  hour,  the 
keen  pang  that  shot  across  her  heart  the 
evening  that  he  had  first  spoken  of 
Belle  Annesley  as  his  possible  future 
wife  ;  for  Keziah  loved  him  jealously. 
But  when  Barnaby  cast  his  covetous 
eyes  on  the  wealth}7  Mrs.  Canterbury, 
and  sent  for  Keziah  to  help  him  scheme 
to  get  her,  she  had  entered  into  it  with 
her  whole  spirit.  What  precise  good 
Keziah  pictured  to  result  from  it  for 
herself,  she  never  said;  but  she  certain- 
ly looked  for  a  great  deal.  And  she 
was  feeling  disappointed,  for  as  yet  the 
good  had  not  come.  To  be  welcomed  as 
an  inmate  of  this  Belgravian  mansion 
she  had  confidently  anticipated  ;  but  she 
had  not  got  there  yet.     In  point  of  fact, 


174 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


Mrs.  Dawkes  did  not  like  Keziah,  and 
she  told  her  husband  that  she  would  not 
have  her  there.  Keziah  thought  he 
might  have  taken  the  reins  into  his  own 
hands  ;  and  she  intended  to  suggest  it 
to  him.  Reaching  the  door,  she  gave  a 
knock  and  then  a  ring ;  and  a  smart 
footman,  in  the  smart  Canterbury  livery, 
appeared. 

"  Is  Captain  Dawkes  at  home  ?  " 

"  No,  mem.'' 

"  Mrs.  Dawkes  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Dawkes  has  not  come  in  yet, 
mem.  There's  nobody  within  but  Mrs. 
Kage." 

Keziah  felt  a  little  surprised. 

"  Mrs.  Kage  !     Is  she  here  ?  " 

"  She  come  up  three  or  four  days  ago, 
mem,"  said  the  man.  "  1  think  she  is 
in  her  room,  a  being  dressed  for  dinner." 

"I  will  wait,"  said  Keziah. 

Making  herself  at  home  in  the  house, 
as  she  chose  always  to  do,  she  turned  in- 
to the  dining-room.  The  table  was  al- 
ready laid,  and  for  several  people. 

"  There's  a  dinner-party  to-day,  I  see," 
observed  Keziah  quickly,  the  beautiful 
glass  and  silver  glittering  in  her  eyes  like 
so  many  diamonds. 

"  Not  much  of  a  party,  mem  ;  a  fami- 
ly assemblage,  I  believe,"  answered  the 
servant,  who  minced  his  words  affectedlj' 
like  some  of  his  betters.  "  The  Misses 
Canterburys  is  to  dine  with  us,  and  one 
or  two  more." 

Keziah  passed  into  a  small  room  that 
her  brother  called  his  "  study."  Pipes 
and  pistols,  and  such-like  curiosities,  lay 
about ;  but  of  materials  for  other  kinds 
of  study  there  appeared  to  be  none. 
She  sat  down  by  the  window,  which  had 
a  lively  prospect  of  the  back  yard. 

"  When  my  brother  comes  in,  say  that 
I  am  waiting  here  to  see  him,"   she  said. 
And  the  man  left  her. 

Captain  Dawkes  and  his  wife  arrived 
together.  He  had  been  driving  her  in 
the  Park.  As  Mrs.  Dawkes  passed  up- 
stairs, the  servant  delivered  the  message 
to  his  master. 

"  Well,  Keziah,"  said  the  Captain, 
beginning  to  unbutton  his  gloves  slowly 
as  he  entered. 

Keziah  shook  hands  with  him.  Since 
the  marriage  her  manners  had  become, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  more  formal. 
Time  was  when  her  only  greeting  to  him 
had  been  a  loving  kiss. 


"I  have  been  waiting  in  for  you  every 
evening  for  a  week  past,  Parnaby,"  she 
began,  some  resentment  in  her  tone. 
*'  You  promised  to  come  and  talk  one  or 
two  things  over  with  me." 

"  Awfully  sorry  for  it,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, with  a  great  show  of  repentance. 
"  Haven't  been  able  to  come,  'pon  honor." 
Keziah  took  her  bonnet-string  in  one 
hand  and  stroked  it  with  the  other. — a 
habit  she  had  when  in  deep  thought, — 
while  her  eyes  were  fixed  reproachfully 
on  Parnaby. 

"  The  matters  must  be  talked  of  be- 
tween us,  Parnaby,  for  my  sake,  if  not 
for  yours.  I  have  never  thought  but  of 
3^ou  through  life;  but  I — I  must  consid- 
er a  little  for  myself  now." 

"  To-morrow,  or  next  day,  I'll  come 
for  certain,  Keziah.  We  get  up  awfully 
late  here,  and  the  morning's  gone  before 
one  can  look  round." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  a  consequence  of 
your  going  to  bed  late  ?  "  said  Keziah/ 
alluding  to  the  getting  up.  I'm  out  of 
my  bed  at  eight  every  morning  in  the 
year." 

"Jolly  freezing  that,  in  winter!"  re- 
marked the  gallant  Captain.  "  Look 
here,  you'll  stay  dinner.  Go  up  and  take 
your  bonnet  off." 

"  You  have  a  party  to-day,  and  I  am 
not  dressed  for  it." 

"  A  party  ?  no.  The  Canterburys  and 
Dunns  and  Tom  Kage.  Don't  think 
there'll  be  anybody  else.  No  need  of 
particular  dress  for  them." 

"  I  did  think  you  would  have  asked  me 
to  come  here  and  stay  a  few  days  with 
you,  Parnaby,"  she  broke  forth,  the  sore 
feeling  finding  vent  at  last.  "  It  would 
be  a  relief  after  my  poor  lodgings." 

"  Fact  is,  Caroline  objects  to  have  peo- 
ple staying  with  her,"  spoke  the  Captain 
with  indifference. 

"  You  might  invite  me." 
"  I'll    see    later.     No    time    to    think 
about    things.       Hands  full  of    engage- 
ments   already.      You'll   stay   to   dinner 
though  ? " 

"  Par  nab}',  do  you  ever  look  back  to 
the  old  days,"  she  asked  in  a  low  tone, 
her  gray  hard  face  bent  forward  with  an 
expression  of  intense  pain,  "  when  you 
and  I  struggled  on  together,  with  very 
few  comforts  and  no  dainties,  and  you 
went  in  fear  of  your  liberty?  Do  you 
ever  recall  that  time  ?  " 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


175 


"  Why,  on  earth,  should  I?  "  demand- 
ed the  Captain.  "  I'm  only  too  glad  to 
6end  it  amidst  the  bygones.  What's  the 
matter  with  you,  Keziah  ?  " 

The  matter  with  her !  Keziah  Dawkes 
was  only  learning  the  hard  lesson  that 
many  another  woman  has  had  to  learn. 
His  turn  served,  the  wealth  and  position 
he  had  coveted  his  at  last,  Barnaby 
L>awkes's  entire  selfishness  displayed  it- 
self in  its  true  colors.  He  cared  no  more 
for  the  'sister  who  had  sacrificed  so  much 
for  him  than  he  did  for  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Self  it  had  been  always  with 
Barnaby  ;  self  it  would  be  to  the  end. 

"  I  did  think  j7ou  might  have  liked  to 
have  me  for  a  short  while  in  your  house, 
Barby,  now  that  you  have  one  worth 
coming  to,"  she  said  a  little  plaintively. 

"  Ah — tell  you,  got  no  time  to  think 
about  it  just  now,  Keziah,"  was  the  su- 
premely independent  answer.  "  Such  a 
lot  to  do  in  town  always.  You  shall 
come  and  stay  with  us  at  the  Rock." 

A  gracious  promise  apparently,  but 
not  a  sincere  one.  Barnaby's  private  be- 
lief was,  that  his  wife  would  no  more 
have  Keziah  at  the  Rock  than  she  would 
in  Belgravia.  For  himself  it  was  a  mat- 
ter of  nearly  perfect  indifference  ;  of  the 
two,  he  would  rather  prefer  Keziah's 
room  to  her  company. 

"  0  Barnaby  !  what  a  splendid  dia- 
mond ! " 

Captain  Dawkes  did  most  things  with 
the  drawling  slowness  of  a  man  of  fash- 
ion, and  he  had  by  this  time  got  off  one 
of  his  gloves.  A  diamond  on  the  third 
finger  of  his  right  hand  flashed  in  the 
light. 

"Rather  nice,"  acquiesced  the  Cap- 
tain listlessly,  as  if  diamonds  were  as 
common  with  him  now  as  debts  once 
were.  "  It's  a  little  too  large  :  got  to  wear 
it  on  this  finger;  shall  have  it  taken  in." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  priceless  dia- 
mond," remarked  Keziah. 

"  No  ;  cheap,  for  what  it  is.  Gave 
three  hundred  and  fifty  for  it.  Saw  it  by 
accident  at  Garrard's  the  other  day,  and 
nailed  it  on  the  spot.  Ordered  a  set  of 
studs  to  match  ;  doubt  if  they'll  get  'em 
as  fine  as — My  dear,  what's  the  matter?  " 
For  Mrs.  Dawkes  had  come  into  the 
room  in  a  kind  of  commotion.  She  did 
not  at  first  see  Keziah,  and  began  to 
speak  very  rapidly. 

"  Did  you  ever  Jcnoio  anything  like 


mamma  ?  She  says  she  is  going  to 
dine  at  table,  and  is  being  got  up  for  it 
in  a  low  dress. — 0,  how  do  you  do,  Ke- 
ziah ?  " 

"  I  was  telling  Keziah  to  take  her 
bonnet  off  and  stay  to  dinner,"  remark- 
ed the  Captain.  "Not  dressed  for  it, 
she  answers  :  as  if  that  mattered  !  " 

"  0,  don't  think  of  your  dress,"  said 
Caroline  graciously. — "  But  about  mam- 
ma, Barnaby  :  what's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Let  her  dine  at  table  if  she  wants 
to,"  was  Barnaby's  comment. 

"But  she'll  look— she'll  look— such 
an  object,"  returned  Mrs.  Dawkes,  hesi- 
tating to  applj'  the  word  to  her  mother, 
but  finding  no  ready  substitute. 

"  And  if  she  does  ?  "  said  the  easy 
Captain.     ';  There'll  be  no  strangers." 

Mrs.  Dawkes  and  Keziah  went  up- 
stairs together.  The  latter  unbuttoned 
her  mantle,  and  glanced  at  her  tight-fit- 
ting brown-silk  dress.  Good  of  its  kind, 
but  not  quite  the  thing  for  a  dinner-par- 
ty. Keziah  Dawkes,  however,  had  out- 
lived the  age  of  vanity.  She  never  pos- 
sessed much  ;  all  hers  had  been  concen- 
tered in  her  handsome  brother. 

She  went  and  sat  in  the  drawing-room 
alone,  and  there  waited  for  the  appear- 
ance of  the  company,  in-door  and  out- 
door. What  a  beautiful  room  it  was ! 
Keziah  was  engaged  in  a  mental  calcu- 
lation as  to  how  many  hundreds  of 
pounds  the  furniture  and  the  fittings-up 
had  cost,  when  her  attention  was  attract- 
ed by  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Kage. 

Keziah's  eyes  took  a  startled  stare  of 
surprise,  and  she  drew  back  involunta- 
rily. W"as  it  indeed  Mrs.  Kage  ?  or 
some  poor  puppet  fantastically  attired  to 
frighten  the  world  ?  Sure  such  a  paint- 
ed face  was  never  seen  in  connection 
with  paralysis !  For  the  remains  of 
that  seizure  were  still  upon  her :  the 
legs  were  uncertain,  the  arms  shook,  the 
mouth  twitched  incessantly.  Fry,  the 
maid,  dragged  rather  than  led  her  across 
the  room  to  a  seat.  Keziah,  in  her  hu- 
manity, went  up  and  helped. 

"  0  dear  !  —  much  obliged  —  who  is 
it  ? "  asked  the  poor  cracked  jerking 
voice,  and  the  dim  eyes  looked  up  ;  eyes 
too  near  their  final  closing  to  be  tricked 
out  as  they  were  with  belladonna. 

"  It  is  I  —  Keziah  Dawkes.  I  am 
glad  to  see  you  can  be  about  again,  Mrs. 
Kage." 


176 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


"  0,  I'm  quite  well,  thank  you  ;  quite 
blooming. — Fry,  where  are  you  putting 
me  ?  " 

Fry  and  Keziah  were  putting  her  in- 
to the  easiest  and  safest  chair  they  could 
find,  one  with  large  elbows ;  from  an 
unsafe  one  she  might  have  tumbled  out. 
0,  what  a  mockery  it  was  ! — her  bedi- 
zened face  ;  the  flowers  and  feathers 
nodding  on  the  head  never  still ;  the 
bare  neck  with  its  thin  black-lace  cover- 
ing; the  jangling  beads  on  the  skeleton 
wrists  !  When  Mrs.  Kage  should  be  at- 
tired for  her  coffin,  lying  in  it  at  rest, 
she  would  be  more  seemly  to  the  eye 
than  she  was  now. 

Fry  had  scarcely  fixed  her,  or  finished 
picking  up  the  fans  and  scent-bottles 
that  would  keep  falling  from  her  hands 
and  lap,  when  Mrs.  Dawkes  entered — a 
lovely  vision  she,  in  pearls  and  blue  sat- 
in. Something  like  dismaj7  rose  to  her 
beautiful  face. 

"  Fry  !  how  could  you  think  of  bring- 
ing mamma  here  ?  "  came  the  vexed 
question.  "  She  should  have  been  taken 
at  once  to  her  place  at  the  table." 

"  She'd  not  go,  ma'am,"  answered 
Fry.      "  She  would  not  hear  of  it." 

"  But  how  is  she  to  be  got  down  when 
the  people  are  here  ? — Mamma" — bend- 
ing down  her  face  to  the  palsied  one — 
"you  had  better  go  to  the  dinner-table 
at  once,  it  will  be  more  comfortable  for 
you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Kage  shrilly.  "I  am  going  down  with 
the  rest ;  I  am  not  a  child.  "0,  the  in- 
gratitude of  daughters!  After  I.  have 
schemed  for  jtou,  Caroline,  to  put  jou  in 
your  beautiful  position,  and  got  you 
loads  of  wealth  and — " 

•'There,  there,  mamma;  that  will  do. 
— Fry,  pour  some  eau  -de  -  cologne  on 
mamma's  hands." 

Mrs.  Kage  was  ever  ready  for  scent 
in  any  shape,  and  the  "pouring  it  on 
her  hands  "  took  her  attention  from  un- 
desirable reminiscences.  Caroline,  bit- 
ing her  pretty  lips,  w'alked  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  out. 

She  was  just  in  time  to  see  the  stop- 
page of  Mrs.  Dunn's  carriage  under- 
neath. One,  the  first  to  step  from  it, 
caused  her  heart  to  thrill  even  then  ;  it 
was  Thomas  Kage.  He  turned  round 
to  give  his  hand  to  the  rest.  Millicent 
Canterburj7  jumped  lightly  down  ;  Olive 


came  next ;  Lydia  Dunn  last.  Captain 
Dawkes,  entering  the  room  with  them, 
found  himself  pulled  gently  by  the  coat- 
tails. 

"  May  I  come  in,  papa  ?  " 

"No,  certainly  not,"  growled  the 
Captain  angrily.  "  We  don't  want  you, 
sir.     Be  off  back  !  " 

The  child — it  was  little  Tom  Canter- 
bury— si) rank  awa}7  timidlj7.  He  had 
his  mother's  blue  eyes  and  her  fair  hair. 
Mr.  Kage,  who  had  lingered  a  moment 
to  give  Mrs.  Dunn's  footman  his  direc- 
tions, came  just  in  the  boy's  way,  and 
stretched  out  his  arms  plaj'fully  on  ei- 
ther side  to  make  a  barrier.  They  were 
alone  on  the  landing.  Something  like  a 
sob  burst  from  Tom. 

"  Why,  my  little  fellow,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Papa  won't  let  me  go  in  ;  he  is  al- 
ways cross  now.  Mamma  is  there,  and 
I've  got  to  go  away  to  the  nursery." 

"  I'll  take  you,"  said  Mr.  Kage. 
"  We'll  go  together." 

Picking  the  child  up  in  his  arms,  he 
carried  him  up  the  stairs  very  tenderly. 
Some  instinct  whispered  to  him  that 
Captain  Dawkes's  show  of  love  before 
marriage  for  this  unfortunate  child  had 
faded  into  air.  In  point  of  fact  it  was 
so  ;  Captain  Dawkes  was  not  deliberate- 
ly harsh  or  cruel  to  the  bo}7 — his  wife 
would  not  have  permitted  that ;  but  he 
was  coldty  indifferent,  sometimes  very 
cross.  Judith,  the  nurse,  sat  in  the 
nursery,  mending  a  pinafore. 

"  Back  again,  Master  Tom  !  I  knew 
it  was  of  no  good  your  asking." 

She  turned  round,  saw  Mr.  Kage,  and 
rose.  The  little  boy  ran  to  a  box  of 
bricks,  and  began  showing  Mr.  Kage 
what  a  good  house  he  could  build.  They 
were  the  best  of  friends,  rare  though 
their  meetings  were ;  and  Mr.  Kage 
never  failed  to  come  without  some  de- 
lightful book  to  please  the  child's  eye  or 
ear.  He  drew  one  from  his  pocket  now, 
and  took  the  boy  on  his  knee.  Tom — 
he  was  always  gentle — pressed  his  little 
hands  together  with  delight  at  the  first 
picture. 

"  What's  that,  Mr.  Kage  ?  An  an- 
gel ?  " 

"  I  never  see  such  a  child,"  interpos- 
ed Judith  in  a  superstitious  semi-whis- 
per. "  He's  always  wanting  to  talk  of 
angels  and  heaven,  sir;  one  would  think 
they  had  called  him  to  go  up  there." 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


177 


"Well,  this  is  an  angel,"  said  Thom- 
as Kage,  smiling  pleasantly.  ''See, 
Tom — he  is  standing  at  the  top  of  the 
ladder  ;  and  Jacoh  is  asleep  at  the  foot, 
with  his  head  on  the  hard  stone." 

"  Does  the  ladder  reach  right  up  into 
heaven  ?  "  ashed  little  Tom. 

"Right  np.  And  the  angels,  though 
we  cannot  see  them,  Tom,  will  help  us 
all  to  climb  it  in  our  turn." 

"  I  dream  of  the  angels  sometimes," 
baid  Tom  ;  I  like  to." 

"Just  hark  at  him  !"  interjected  Ju- 
dith to  herself. 

"  Nobody  tells  me  about  them  but 
you,"  said  Tom.  "  I  wish  you'd  come  here 
oftener." 

"I  have  to  stay  at  home  and  work," 
said  Mr.  Kage.     "  Ask  mamma  to  tell 

you." 

"  Mamma  says  she  has  no  time." 

"You  audacious  little  Turk,  taking 
mamma's  name  in  vain  !  "  interposed  a 
fond  voice  at  this  juncture  ;  and  the  child 
slid  off  Thomas  Kage's  knee  to  fly  to  it. 
Caroline  clasped  him  in  her  arms,  kiss- 
ing him  passionately.  Her  love  for  him 
could  not  fade  or  weaken.  With  a  laugh- 
ing apology  for  not  speaking  to  him  at 
once,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  Mr.  Kage. 

"  I  thought  I  might  find  you  here. 
But  what  kind  of  manners  do  you  call  it, 
sir,  to  pay  your  respects  to  Mr.  Tom  be- 
fore 37ou  pay  them  to  me  ?  " 

"  He  waylaid  me  on  the  stairs,  and  I 
carried  him  up  here." 

"  Papa  would  not  let  me  go  into  the 
drawing-room.     I  wanted  you,  mamma." 

"  Not  let  you  !  Nonsense,  Tom  !  The 
dinner's  not  quite  ready  ;  you  shall  go 
down  with  me." 

"  I  don't  care  now,"  dissented  Tom. 
I've  got  a  book  with  some  angels  in  it. 
Mr.  Kage  gave  it  me." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  him,"  ex- 
claimed Caroline,  a  mist  of  gratitude  ris- 
ing in  her  eyes.  "  I  think  you  wish  to 
be  a  true  friend  to  him." 

"  It  is  what  I  mean  to  be,  Heaven  per- 
mitting me." 

Tom  sat  down  on  the  carpet,  picture- 
book  on  lap,  and  Mrs.  Dawkes  and  her 
cousin  descended  the  stairs  together,  her 
vain  glance  lingering  in  any  mirror  they 
happened  to  pass.  Thomas  Kage  had 
rejected  her  for  his  wife  ;  but  she  liked  to 
look  her  best  in  his  ej'es,  for  all  that. 
Whether  she  were  more  vain  of  herself  or 
11 


her  precious  boy,  it  would  have  puzzled 
Mrs.  Dawkes  to  tell. 

"  He  is  a  queer  little  darling,  she  sud- 
denly said.  "  Fancying  his  staying  up 
there  from  choice,  to  '  look  at  the  an- 
gels ' !  " 

"  He  could  not  look  at  better  things, 
Caroline." 

"  0,  of  course  not.  I  think  it  must 
have  been  j^ou  who  first  gave  him  the 
fancy.  Judith  says  he  would  always  be 
talking  of  angels  and  heaven." 

"  I  think  in  these  rare  cases,  it  is 
Heaven  itself  that  gives  it,"  gravely 
spoke  Mr.  Kage.  "  Caroline,  are  you  do- 
ing 3'our  duty  by  him  ?  " 

The  question  sounded  rather  an  abrupt 
one.  Mrs.  Dawkes  turned  her  face  to 
the  speaker. 

"  My  duty  !  " 

"  I  mean  in  the  higher  sense  of  the 
word.  A  child  should  be  trained  to  think 
of  these  solemn  things.  Are  you  train- 
ing him  ?  " 

"  Thomas,  how  old-fashioned  jtou  are  ! 
What  do  I  know  of  angels,  more  than 
anybodj7  else  knows  ?  " 

His  good  dark  eyes  rested  for  a  mo- 
ment upon  hers.  That  she  certainly 
knew  next  to  nothing,  had  never  been 
taught  to  know,  he  was  only  too  well 
aware. 

"  The  child  has  just  said  to  me,  talk- 
ing of  angels,  '  Mamma  has  no  time  to 
tell  me  about  them.'  Caroline,  you  must 
make  the  time.  It  is  the  solemn  dut}T  of 
every  mother  to  endeavor  to  train  her 
child  for  heaven." 

"  I  wish  you'd  not  preach  as  though 
you  were  in  a  pulpit,  Thomas.  I  do  train 
him.  He  says  his'prayers,  and  all  that. 
One  would  think  you  feared  I  meant  him 
to  be  a  heathen  ! " 

"  His  father  is  dead  ;  you  alone  are  left. 
If  Mr.  Canterbury  can  look  dowrn  on  this 
world,  Caroline,  think  what  his  grief  and 
agony  might  be  at  seeing  his  little  son 
left  untaught.  The  training  of  children 
is  the  most  solemn  duty  that  can  be  as- 
signed to  us  in  this  world.  Very  few  ful- 
fil it  as  they  ought." 

"How  earnest  3rou  are  in  this!"  she 
involuntarily  exclaimed. 

"  Because  my  mother  trained  me"  he 
whispered.  "  Caroline,  for  your  boy's 
sake,  I  beseech  j'ou  look  to  it." 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard  Dunn  had 
arrived  when  they  got  back  to  the  draw- 


178 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


ing-room  ;  also  two  gentlemen  invited  by 
Captain  Dawkes.  The  butler  was  com- 
ing up  to  announce  dinner. 

"  Mind,  Thomas,  you  go  in  with  me," 
said  Mrs.  Dawkes  hurriedly,  as  she  went 
forward  to  shake  hands  with  Sarah 
Dunn. 

"And  your  young  inmate,  Belle  An- 
nesley  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  wrote  word 
that  we  hoped  to  see  her." 

"  She  is  past  going  out  to  dinner  now, 
Caroline,"  was  Mrs.  Dunn's  answer. 
"  She  gets  weaker  and  weaker." 

"  Poor  girl  !  When  does  she  start  for 
the  West  Indies  ?  " 

"  I  fear,  never.  I  fear  she  will  not  live 
for  it." 

"Is  she  so  ill  as  that?"  exclaimed 
Caroline,  all  sympathy.  "  What  can  have 
induced  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dunn  said  nothing.  Her  eyes 
chanced  to  meet  those  of  Thomas  Kage  ; 
both  could  have  answered  what,  had  they 
chosen. 

After  all,  Thomas  Kage  did  not  take 
first  place,  as  proposed.  There  appeared 
to  be  so  much  difficulty  in  getting  down 
Mrs.  Kage  and  her  fans,  that  he  went  to 
Fry's  assistance.  Her  poor  legs  were 
dropping  beneath  her  at  every  stair,  but 
she  was  landed  in  safety.  He  took  a  seat 
by  her ;  no  one  would  have  smoothed 
difficulties  for  her  as  he  did  :  Caroline  was 
tolerably  content  that  it  should  be  so, 
and  bade  another  gentleman  to  her  side 
in  his  place.  But  a  sharp  cloud  passed 
momentarily  over  her  brow  when  she  saw 
that  Thomas  Kage  had  Millicent  Canter- 
bury on  his  other  hand,  and  that  they 
appeared  to  be  on  terms  of  assured  friend- 
ship. 

What  a  display  it  was  ! — the  fantastic, 
shaking  puppet  at  the  festive  board, 
amidst  the  lights  and  the  flowers  and  the 
gala  dresses  !  A  death's-head,  more  than 
anything  else,  by  contrast  looked  she. 
The  shaking  fork  rattled  against  the 
shaking  teeth,  the  food  fell,  the  wine  was 
spilled  ;  and  she,  poor  thing,  strove  to 
make  a  pretence  of  being  juvenile  with 
the  rest,  and  tapped  Thomas  Kage's  arm 
with  her  fan,  and  thought  she  was  flirt- 
ing with  him.  He  did  his  best  to  cover 
her  deficiencies,  and  got  very  little  dinner 
for  his  pains;  but  she  was  a  pitiable  ob- 
ject, tottering  on  the  edge  of  the  grave. 

Was  it  for  this  that  she  had  schemed 
and  plotted,  and  lost  the  favor  of  good 


men  ?  Had  her  grasping  and  her  basely- 
acquired  wealth  brought  her  no  other  or 
better  reward  ?  The  means  and  the  end 
were  in  fitness  with  each  other  :  and  Mrs. 
Kage  in  horrible  fitness  with  them. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

MES.    GARSTON's    PURCHASE. 

The  streets  were  comparatively  empty, 
comparatively  cool ;  for  the  London  great 
world  had  not  yet  come  out  to  throng 
them,  and  the  burning  summer's  sun  had 
scarcely  attained  to  its  midday  heat. 
Traversing  the  shining  pavement,  with 
the  deliberate  step  of  one  who  talks  as  he 
goes,  was  Thomas  Kage  ;  and  by  his  side 
a  young  lady,  whose  gentle  face  and  cool 
muslin  dress  were  equally  pleasant  to 
look  upon.  Never  saw  man  a  nicer  face 
than  hers  ;  for  it  was  Millicent  Canter- 
bury's. Miss  Canterbury  and  Lydia 
Dunn  were  on  in  advance. 

Take  it  for  all  in  all,  the  days  of  Mr. 
Kage  were  greatly  occupied  just  now  ;  on 
this  the  day  after  Mrs.  Dawkes's  dinner, 
he  would  be  very  busy.  Labor  always 
accumulated  when  he  prepared  to  depart 
on  circuit;  and  for  once  in  his  life, 
he  had  lately  been  striving  to  unite  bu  i- 
ness  with  pleasure,  for  he  went  out  a 
good  deal  with  the  Miss  Canterburys. 

Accident  in  the  first  instance,  led  to 
his  doing  so.  Dining  one  evening  at 
Mrs.  Dunn's  soon  after  the  Miss  Canter- 
burys came  on  their  visit  to  her,  Olive 
happened  to  remark,  in  answer  to  a  ques- 
tion of  whether  they  had  seen  some 
show-place,  that  they  did  not  go  about 
so  much  as  they  would,  in  consequence 
of  having  no  gentleman  to  accompany 
them  ;  Mr.  Richard  Dunn,  who  was  al- 
ways kind  and  polite,  being  very  much 
in  Wales  at  his  mines  just  now,  and 
only  running  up  occasionally.  Upon 
that,  Mr.  Kage  offered  himself  as  Rich- 
ard Dunn's  substitute,  and  was  with 
them  as  much  as  leisure  allowed. 

The  expedition  this  morning  was  noth- 
ing formidable;  only  the  calling  upon 
Mrs.  Garston.  That  active  lady,  rebel- 
lious to  fashion's  habits,  preferred  to 
see  visitors  literally  in  the  morning ; 
after  ten  o'clock  she  was  ready  for  any 
who    might    call.     At    Mrs.    Dawkses's 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


179 


dinner-table  the  previous  evening,  Mr. 
Kage,  hearing  that  the  Miss  Canterbury's 
purposed  going  there,  had  made  a  half 
promise  to  come  round  and  fetch  them. 
He  was  living  in  his  own  home  again,  as 
a  temporary  arrangement.  The  friends 
who  had  tenanted  it  were  gone,  and  Mr. 
Kage  slept  at  home  for  safety.  He  had 
written  to  the  landlord,  saying  he  should 
resign  it  at  the  approaching  expiration 
of  the  lease. 

Absorbed  in  conversation,  their  steps 
lingered,  and  Olive  and  Mrs.  Dunn  were 
first  at  Mrs.  Grarston's  gate.  It  did  not 
surprise  Thomas  Kage  to  see  the  old  lady 
with  them,  for  she  liked  to  pace  her 
garden  in  fine  weather.  Leaning  on  her 
stick,  her  gray  bonnet  tilted  a  little  for- 
ward on  her  head,  she  watched  their  ap- 
proach with  her  keen  eyes. 

"  So,  Thomas  Kage,  you  are  taking 
holiday  to-day  !  " 

"  Not  whole  holiday,"  was  his  answer, 
as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  a  I  am 
going  to  my  chambers  by  and  by." 

But  the  venerable  lady  did  not  respond 
to  the  movement.  She  despised  the  for- 
mality of  hand-shaking,  except  when 
people  met  but  rarely.  Thomas  Kage 
was  used  to  her,  and  he  thought  the  re- 
jection meant  no  slight.  Walking  to  a 
shady  path,  where  two  benches  faced 
each  other,  Mrs.  Garston  seated  herself, 
and  they  grouped  themselves  around  her. 
It  was  within  view  of  that  tree  where 
poor  Belle  Annesley  had  leaned  her 
aching  forehead  the  day  she  met  Keziah 
Davvkes  and  her  cruel  words. 

"  What  makes  you  so  late  ? "  was 
Mrs.  Garston's  first  question  to  Miss 
Canterbury. 

"  Do  you  call  it  late  ?  "  replied  Olive. 
"  I  thought  it  early/1 

11  Why,  it  is  not  twelve  o'clock  yet," 
put  in  Mrs.  Dunn.  "  I  said  to  Olive, 
coming  along,  that  you  would  take  us 
for  Vandals." 

Mrs.  Garston's  stick  struck  the  smooth 
hard  gravel.  The  latter  speaker  was  no 
more  in  favor  with  her  than  she  ever  had 
been. 

"  I've  never  taken  you  for  much  else, 
Lydia  Dunn.  You'd  go  in  for  fashion 
and  frivolity  yourself,  if  you  were  not  so 
restless.     I  wonder  you  come  here." 

"  But  I  like  to  see  you  now  and  then," 
laughingly  answered  Mrs.  Dunn,  taking 
the  reproach  in  good  humor. 


"Then  behave  yourself  when  you 
come,  and  don't  talk  false  nonsense 
about  the  day's  being  early  when  it's 
half  gone.  It's  disrespectful  to  me, 
Lydia  Dunn.  I  am  old  enough  to  be 
your  grandmother,  and  with  some  years 
to  spare." 

"  I  wish  we  could  bring  our  country 
habits  with  us  to  London,  and  find  them 
welcome  here,"  remarked  Miss  Canter- 
bury with  a  smile.  "  We  are  earlier 
there  than  even  you,  Mrs.  Garston. 
Chilling  is  but  a  primitive  place." 

"  Earlier  are  you  ?  "  returned  the  ven- 
erable dame.  "  I  am  down  to  breakfast 
every  morning  at  nine  o'clock,  Olive 
Canterbury,  and  often  in  my  garden  at 
ten.  And  so  you  were  out  at  dinner  last 
night?" 

"Yes  ;  we  dined  with  Mrs.  Dawkes." 

"  With  her  that  was  Caroline  Kage, 
and  next  Caroline  Canterbury,  and  then 
went  and  made  a  fool  of  herself  by  mar- 
rying Barby  Dawkes,"  commented  the 
old  lady.  "  Well,  they  are  not  ill-suited 
to  each  other  ;  heartless  frivolities,  both 
of  'em.  You  had  an  escape  there,  Thom- 
as Kage." 

The  color  flushed  sharply  into  his  face 
even  then,  at  the  allusion ;  as  was  to  all 
perfectly  visible,  standing  there  with  his 
back  against  the  tree-trunk.  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton lifted  her  stick,  but  not  in  wrath. 

"  You  needn't  redden  up  so,  Thomas. 
Many  a  man  as  good  as  you  has  had  his 
eye8  taken  by  a  pretty  girl — and  his 
heart  too.  But  you  were  too  good  for 
her,  and  I  b'lieve  Heaven  saw  it,  and 
spared  you.  Barby  has  got  her,  and  she 
is  too  good  for  him.  She'll  find  it  out, 
too.  Well,  I  didn't  envy  you  your  din- 
ner last  night." 

"  We  did  not  envy  ourselves,"  re- 
marked Lydia  Dunn.  "  It  is  never  very 
pleasant  to  us  to  meet  Caroline.  The 
remembrance  of  certain  wrongs  recur 
with  more  force  at  the  sight  of  her." 

"  I  don't  mean  for  that,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Garston,  with  a  few  violent  knocks. 
"  Nobody  supposes  it  would  be  pleasant ; 
but  if  you  choose  to  go  in  for  it,  you 
bring  the  consequences  on  yourself, 
whether  they  are  pleasure,  or  whether 
they  are  pain.  I  spoke  of  Mrs.  Kage.  I 
should  not  like  to  sit  down  to  dinner,  and 
have  a  skeleton  at  the  same  table  with 
painted  cheeks  and  rattling  bones ! 
'Twould  have  upset  my  stomach." 


180 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


Millicent  burst  out  laughing,  somewhat 
irreverently.  Olive  lifted  her  finger  in 
reproof,  and  turned  to  Mrs.  Garston. 

"  You  have  heard  about  the  dinner, 
then  ?  " 

*' I  have  heard  all  about  it.  Early  as 
you  may  consider  it,  Mistress  Lydia 
Dunn,  Keziah  Dawkes  was  here  more 
than  an  hour  ago.  She  happened  to  call 
at  Barby 's  yesterday,  and  they  asked 
her  to  stay  to  dinner." 

"  I  don't  like  Keziah  Dawkes  at  all," 
spoke  Mrs.  Dunn,  with  her  usual  blunt 
candor. 

■'  You  like  her  as  well  as  I  do,  I'll 
lay,"  said  Keziah's  great-aunt.  "  She 
knows  it  too,  and  does  not  come  here 
often  —  a'most  never,  but  when  she 
wants  anything.  There's  some  trouble 
up  about  the  iuoney  she  advanced  for 
Barby  before  his  marriage ;  the  people 
are  claiming  some  of  the  charges  twice 
over,  and  Barby  has  managed  to  lose 
the  papers.  Daresay  he  never  kept 
'em.  Keziah  came  here  to  ask  if  I  re- 
membered a  certain  date." 

"  Keziah  Dawkes  always  gives  me 
the  idea  of  being  a  thoroughly  good  sis- 
ter," interposed  Thomas  Kage. 

"  She's  that.  She  has  been  to  Barb}' 
one  in  a  thousand.  Keziah  Dawkes 
would  sacrifice  all  the  world  to  him,  her- 
self included  ;  but  she  is  hard-natured 
in  the  main — ill-conditioned  also.  You 
should  have  heard  her  sneers  this  morn- 
ing at  Mrs,  Kage.  Why  did  they  let  a 
poor  object  like  that  dine  at  table  ?  " 

"  I  think  Mr.  Kage  has  the'  most  cause 
to  ask  that,"  said  Lydia  Dunn.  "  He 
had  all  the  trouble  of  her." 

"  Had  he  !  Serve  him  right.  He 
gives  enough  trouble  to  other  folks." 

Of  course  the  aspersion  caused  Thom- 
as Kage  to  look  up.     His  old  friend  was 
glaring  at  him  with  no  sweet  expression. 
"  What  have  I  done  now,  dear  Mrs. 
Garston  ?  " 

"  Now,  suppose  }rou  put  that  question 
to  yourself,  Thomas  Kage.  Just  think 
over  your  actions  of  the  last  day  or  two, 
and  perhaps  you  mightn't  need  to  ask  it 
of  other  people." 

"  I  really  do  not  know  what  j^ou 
mean,"  he  resumed,  after  a  pause. 

"  Have  you  wrote  a  notice  to  your 
landlord  to  quit  your  house,  or  have  you 
not  ?"  she  asked,  lifting  her  stick  in  his 
face. 


"  I  have  done  that.  I  told  you  that 
I  should  do  it,  Mrs.  Garston." 

"  But  I  didn't  suppose  you  were  in 
earnest,"  she  angrily  said.  "  I  never 
thought  you'd  have  the  heart  to  give  up 
the  house  that  your  mother  died  in  ;  or 
the  face  to  abandon  me.  I  thought  bet- 
ter of  you,  Thomas  Kage.  What's  the 
matter  with  the  house  ?  Answer  me 
that." 

"  Not  anything.  If  I  were  at  all 
likely  to  settle  in  life,  I  should  like  none 
better.  For  me,  a  single  man,  it  is  a 
great  expense,  and  I  feel  that  I  should 
scarcely  be  justified  in  renewing  the 
lease." 

"  And  the  leaving  me  counts  for  noth- 
ing, though  I've  been  as  good  to  }tou  as 
a  mother  ! " 

"  But  I  shall  not  leave  you,  dear  Mrs. 
Garston.  I  can  be  with  you  just  as 
much  as  though  I  lived  next  door." 

Mrs.  Garston's  head  was  nodding 
ominously — not- after  Mrs.  Kage's  help- 
less fashion,  but  in  anger.  Thomas 
Kage  had  expected  some  such  explosion  ; 
but  he  wondered  how  she  had  got  to  hear 
of  the  notice  so  speedily,  since  it  was 
sent  only  on  the  previous  day. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  to  do  with 
your  sticks  and  stones,  pray  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer  for  the  moment, 
for  the  subject  was  rather  a  sore  one. 
"  Sticks  and  stones"  that  have  been  for 
years  in  our  old  homesteads  can  be  part- 
ed from  only  with  lively  pain. 

"Some  of 'the  furniture — it  is  not  of 
much  intrinsic  value — I  shall  sell  ;  and 
the  articles  that  were  prized  by  my 
mother  must  be  warehoused,"  was  his 
tardy  answer.  Anything  but  a  satisfac- 
tory one  to  Mrs.  Garston,  who  was  bend- 
ing forward  to  listen. 

"  Warehoused  !  You  would  ware- 
house the  good  old  articles  that  were 
dear  to  your  mother !  I  wonder  what 
you'd  call  that,  Thomas  Kage  ?  Sacri- 
lege ?  " 

"  They  shall  be  well  taken  care  of, 
somehow,"  he  murmured. 

"  And  you'll  sell  the  rest !  Sell ! 
D'ye  suppose  there's  anything  among 
'em  that  might  suit  me  ?  "  she  resumed 
in  a  pleasant  tone.  "  Let  us  step  in  and 
have  a  look.  I'm  going  to  rebuild  my 
coachman's  house,  and  shall  want  furni- 
ture for  it." 

She  went  marching  off  with  her  stick, 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


181 


taking  Thomas  Kage's  arm  when  he 
held  it  out  to  her.  The  rest  followed. 
Mr.  Kage  smiled  at  the  sudden  invasion 
of  his  premises,  and  hoped  they  would 
be  found  in  order. 

He  need  not  have  feared  ;  for  old 
Dorothy,  in  renewed  health,  was  hack 
again,  and  ruled  over  matters  with  a 
critical  eye.  Mrs.  Garston,  without  the 
smallest  ceremony,  went  from  room  to 
room  till  the  whole  house  had  been  visit- 
ed, making  her  comments  aloud.  All 
very  disparaging  comments,  and  tending 
to  the  point  that  it  wanted  "doing  up." 

"  It  is  as  I  sa}7 — the  place  must  be 
re-done,"  she  observed,  coming  to  an 
anchor  in  the  dining-room.  "  Just  you 
get  a  pencil  and  paper,  Thomas  Kage, 
and  jot  down  what  the  landlord  will  have 
to  do  before  it's  taken  by  a  fresh  ten- 
ant." 

"  But — it  will  not  be  any  business  of 
mine,"  dissented  Mr.  Kage. 

"  Now  you  do  as  I  bid  you,"  she  ar- 
bitrarily rejoined.  "I  know  that  land- 
lord too  well  ;  and  so  do  you,  Lydia 
Dunn,  I  expect,  for  he  is  yours.  He'll 
give  a  single  coat  of  paint  and  a  dab 
o'varnish,  and  call  a  room  done." 

"  I  thought  tenants  had  to  put  a  house 
habitable  at  the  expiration  of  a  lease," 
interposed  Miss  Canterbury. 

"  That's  as  the  lease  may  be  worded," 
returned  Mrs.  Garston.  "  Ours  is  this 
way. — Now  then,  Thomas  Kage,  where's 
that  pencil  and  paper?" 

Putting  the  paper  before  him  without 
so  much  as  a  smile,  he  sat  down  to  write 
what  she  desired  :  he  had  grown  to  obey 
her  almost  implicitly.  It  must  be  waste 
of  time,  he  knew  ;  and  tedious,  he  feared, 
to  the  Miss  Canterburys. 

The  house  was  to  be  papered  and 
painted  throughout,  and  thoroughly  ren- 
ovated, all  in  the  best  style  and  manner  ; 
drains  were  to  be  looked  to;  a  scullery, 
much  wanted,  should  be  built  out  at 
the  back  ;  the  premises  altogether  made 
complete. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  Thomas  Kage, 
looking  up  with  a  laugh  as  she  came  to 
an  end. 

"  It's  all  I  think  of  for  the  present," 
she  answered.  "  How  ever  }rou  and  poor 
Lady  Kage  could  have  lived  with  this 
horrid  red  paper  on  the  wall  "  (striking 
it  with  her  stick),  "  I  can't  think.  And 
your  mother  had  good  taste  in  general, 
Thomas." 


"  We  did  not  like  the  paper  because 
it  lighted  up  so  badly  ;  but  it  is  hand- 
some of  its  kind." 

"  Handsome  of  its  kind  !  You  may 
say  that  of  a  dancing-bear.  If  I  had  a 
red-papered  room  in  my  house,  I  should 
whitewash  it  over.     Give  me  the  list." 

As  he  handed  it  to  her,  she  caught  the 
look  of  smiling  incredulity  on  his  coun- 
tenance.    It  a  little  annoyed  her. 

"  I  see ;  you  deem  this  quite  useless 
— waste  of  time,  as  you  said  just  now." 

"  I  am  sure  the  landlord  will  never  do 
so  much,  nor  the  half  of  it,"  he  answer- 
ed. "  And  in  any  case,  dear  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton, it  cannot  concern  me." 

"  I'll  answer  for  this  much,  Thomas 
Kage — that  the  landlord  will  do  every 
item  you've  written  down  here.  Wheth- 
er it  shall  concern  you  or  not — that  is, 
whether  you  shall  choose  to  stop  on  in 
the  house,  or  whether  you  go  out  of  it — 
it  shall  be  put  into  proper  repair." 

"  You  must  have  made  it  a  condition 
with  him,  then,  in  renewing  your  own 
lease." 

"Never  you  mind  whether  I  have  or 
haven't ;  don't  you  be  so  fond  of  contra- 
dicting me. — We  will  go  back  again 
now." 

When  they  reached  her  garden,  Mrs. 
Garston  led  the  way  indoors  to  her  own 
dining-room.  Its  beautiful  paper  of 
white  and  gold  was  cheerful  to  see  in  the 
midday  sun.  She  called  their  attention 
to  it. 

"This  is  the  right  sort  of  paper.  I 
like  large-looking  rooms,  and  I  like  light 
ones  ;  and  you  don't  get  either  when  the 
walls  are  red.  This  self-same  pattern, 
if  it  can  be  got,  shall  be  put  into  that 
parlor  of  yours,  Thomas  Kage." 

"  If  you  can  get  the  landlord  to  do 
it,"  he  answered,  humoring  her. 

"  The  landlord  happens  to  be  myself." 

The  avowal  took  them  by  surprise. 
Mrs.  Garston  made  it  from  her  large 
chair,  in  which  she  had  put  herself; 
her  gray  bonnet  was  thrown  back;  her 
keen  gray  eyes  sought  theirs  ;  her  stick, 
held  in  both  hands,  gently  tapped  the 
carpet  before  her.  Never  did  a  more 
self-asserting  old  lady  sit  for  a  portrait. 
But  if  some  doubt  appeared  in  Thomas 
Kage's  face,  he  might  be  pardoned. 
She  saw  it ;  perhaps  had  been  watching 
for  it. 

"  You'd  like  to  telj  me  to  my  face 
that    I   am   saying    what   is    not   true, 


182 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


Thomas  Kage.  What  would  your 
mother  have  said  to  such  manners  ?  she 
always  trusted  me.  I  have  bought  the 
house  next  door,  and  I  have  bought  this. 
Now  then ! " 

"  I'm  sure  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it," 
he  murmured. 

"  I  wished  to  buy  them  years  ago : 
your  mother  knew  that.  But  that  land- 
lord, scenting  the  wish,  put  such  a  price 
upon  them  that  I'd  not  give  it  him. 
You  have  left  me  no  resource  now, 
Thomas  Kage." 
"  I ! " 

"  You.  Don't  you  be  insolent — star- 
ing at  me  as  if  I  talked  Dutch  !  Could 
I  submit  to  the  chance  of  having  any 
kind  of  people  next  to  me  ? — and  you 
said  in  my  ear  months  ago,  you  know, 
that  you  should  give  up  the  house  when 
the  lease  ran  out.  A  travelling  circus 
might  have  come  and  took  it,  for  all  I 
could  answer — the  grounds  are  big.  So 
I  sent  for  the  landlord,  and  said  to  him, 
'  Put  on  your  own  price  ;  '  which  he  did, 
and  a  nice  price  it  was  :  but  I  paid  it, 
and  the  property  is  mine." 

"  Dear  me  !  that  was  going  to  work 
in  a  very  costly  manner,"  commented 
Mrs.  Dunn,  who  never  could  refrain 
from  interfering  in  other  people's  busi- 
ness. 

Mrs.  Garston  rewarded  her  by  a  sharp 
reproof. 

"  It  was  my  own  affair,  Lydia  Dunn. 
If  it  had  cost  me  ten  times  as  much,  I 
should  have  done  it.  Once  my  mind  is 
set  upon  a  thing,  who  is  to.  say  me 
nay?" 

''  But  the  waste  of  money  ?  "  persist- 
ed Lydia. 

"  Money  !  I've  got  enough  of  that — 
more  than  I  know  what  to  do  with 
sometimes.  And  now  —  a  last  word 
with  you,  Thomas  Kage.  Ah,  you  little 
thought  when  you  penned  that  fine  no- 
tice yesterday  that  it  was  coming  to  me. 
I  wish  you  to  remain  on  in  the  next 
house.  I've  bought  it  that  you  may ; 
and  whether  you  pay  me  rent,  or 
whether  you  pay  me  none,  is  a  matter 
of  indifference  to  me.  If  I  were  to  say 
I'd  not  receive  any,  your  pride  would 
rise  up  all  cock-a-hoop  ;  so  I  don't  say 
it.  But  I  beg  you  to  understand  this 
one  thing — if  my  wishes  go  for  naught 
and  you  quit  the  house,  it  will  remain 
empty,  for  I  shall  never  suffer  any  other 
tenant  to  enter  while  I  live." 


As  if  to  give  effect  to  the  assertion, 
Mrs.  Garston  brought  her  stick  down 
with  a  thump  so  emphatic  that  Millicent 
Canterbury,  standing  by  the  chair's  el- 
bow, started  backwards.  They  rose  to 
depart ;  the  visit,  including  the  time 
they  spent  in  the  other  house,  had  been 
unconscionably  long,  as  Lydia  Dunn 
expressed  it.  Thomas  Kage,  feeling 
rather  bewildered,  prepared  to  attend 
them.  In  going  down  the  garden  he 
found  himself  pulled  back  by  Mis. 
Garston.  The  others  were  well  on  in 
advance. 

"  You  made  a  mistake  once  in  your 
life,  Thomas,"  she  said.  "  Are  you 
thinking  to  remedy  it  ?  " 

"  What  mistake,  dear  Mrs.  Garston  ?  " 

"  In  falling  in  love  with  that  Kage 
girl.  You  see  how  she  served  you. 
Many  a  one  before  }Tou  has  thrown  away 
the  kernel  for  the  shell." 

He  smiled  a  little.  "What  kernel  ? — 
what  shell  ?  " 

"  She."  And  the  stick  was  pointed  at 
Millicent,  who  had  turned  round  at  the 
end  of  the  path  to  wait.  "  If  I  can 
read  countenances — and  I  used  to  do  it 
— that  girl  is  one  of  the  best  living. 
She'd  make  you  happier  than  the  other 
ever  would ;  ay,  though  you  had  mar- 
ried that  'un  in  the  heyday  of  love." 

He  flushed  a  very  little,  laughing 
lightly. 

"  Millicent  Canterbury  must  be  as  a 
forbidden  star  to  me,  my  dear  old 
friend." 

"  And  why  must  she  ?  " 

"  She  has  ten  thousand  pounds.  I 
have  nothing  ;  or  next  to  nothing." 

Never  had  Mrs.  Garston  been  nearer 
going  into  a  real  passion  than  then. 
Her  gray  eyes  flashed  sparks  on  the 
speaker. 

"  Ten  thousand  pounds !  and  you 
nothing  !  Are  you  saying  this  to  en- 
rage me,  Thomas  Kage  ?  It's  false 
sophistry,  every  word  of  it.  Though 
the  girl,  or  any  other  girl,  had  ten  times 
ten  thousand,  and  }'ou  had  but  the  coat 
and  breeches  you  stood  up  in,  you'd  be 
more  than  her  equal.  A  husband  such 
as  you'll  make,  a  good  man  as  your 
mother  trained  3'ou  to  be,  is  worth,  to 
the  woman  who  gets  him,  a  king's  ran- 
som. Ten  thousand  pounds  ! — ten  thou- 
sand rubbish  ! " 

Mortally  offended,  Mrs.  Garston  turn- 
|  ed  in  and  slammed  the  door  in  his  face. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


183 


He  went  forward  with  rather  a  conscious 
countenance. 

"What  is  Mrs.  Grarston  angry  with 
you  for  ?  "  asked  Millicent. 

"  I  said  something  that  did  not  please 
her,"  he  answered,  glancing  at  the 
sweet  eyes  cast  on  him  with  unsuspi- 
cious inquiry. 

For  some  little  time  now  he  had  es- 
teemed Millicent  Canterbury  above 
everybody  else  in  the  world ;  not  with 
that  early  passionate  love  that  can  touch 
man's  heart  but  once,  but  with  a  far 
more  lasting  friendship.  To  what  end  ? 
since,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Carston's  anger, 
he  did  not  look  upon  social  problems  ex- 
actl\r  as  she  did. 

"  We  must  step  out,  Millicent.  Your 
sisters  have  got  on  the  length  of  the 
street." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

NOT    QUITE    HEARTLESS. 

The  window  was  thrown  open  to  the 
summer  sun,  and  a  fire  burnt  in  the 
grate.  To  every  one  but  the  poor  sick 
invalid  the  heat  seemed  stifling.  Rich- 
ard Dunn,  a  fine  portly  man,  mentally 
pronounced  it  to  be  so  as  he  paced  the 
room  with  gentle  steps.  She  was  cold  ; 
and  a  suspicion  was  dawning  on  those 
around  that  it  might  be  with  the  ad- 
vance shadow  of  death. 

She  was  passing  away  very  gently  : 
the  painful  adjuncts  that  too  often  at- 
tend even  young  girls  to  the  grave 
spared  Belle  Annesley.  The  maid 
dressed  her  still,  and  combed  out  the 
soft  curls  of  her  pretty  hair,  and  now 
and  again  tied  a  bit  of  ribbon  in  it. 
The  cough  had  left  her :  there  seemed 
absolutely  nothing  the  matter  with  her 
but  weakness.  Wise  Dr.  Tyndal,  pay- 
ing his  visit  this  morning,  had  declared 
to  Mr.  Dunn  that  if  they  could  only 
fight  against  that,  she  might  recover. 
But  Mr.  Dunn  knew  quite  well  that 
they  could  not  fight  against  it.  The 
child  herself  knew  it. 

She  really  looked  but  a  child  ;  more 
so  than  ever,  in  spite  of  the  huge  shawl 
that  wrapped  her  up,  and  her  black-and- 
white  muslin  dress.  She  lay  back  in 
the  easy-chair,  her  feet  on  a  footstool ; 


the  trembling  fingers  of  her  delicate 
hands  plucking  at  the  white  handker- 
chief that  lay  in  her  lap.  Richard 
Dunn  happening  to  notice  the  restless 
movement,  and  not  liking  the  looks  of  it, 
stood  still  for  a  few  minutes  regarding 
her. 

"  What  is  amiss  with  the  handker- 
chief, Belle  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  she  listlessly  answered, 
pushing  it  aside.  The  next  minute  she 
had  begun  again  —  at  the  shawl  this 
time.  Mr.  Dunn  sat  down  by  her,  and 
took  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Do  vou  feel  worse,  my  dear  ?  " 

"No."   Why?" 

"  You  are  very  silent,"  he  answered 
by  way  of  excuse. 

"I  was  thinking  —  thinking  of  the 
past.  Of  those  old  days,  when  I  was  so 
wild  and  heartless  and  wilful.  They 
seem  to  be  ages  ago  now." 

"  Past  time  often  does,  my  dear." 

"Always,  I  should  think,  to  one  like 
me — leaving  the  world  forever.  I  want 
you  to  say  that  you  forgive  me,"  she 
added  in  a  whisper. 

"  Forgive  you  !     What  for  ?  " 

"  0,  you  know.  I  did  cause  you  pain 
in  those  days,  and  I  caused  it  wilfully. 
A  vain,  mocking,  ridiculing  thing  — 
that's  what  I  was;  nothing  else.  I — I 
don't  care  to  recall  it  all  in  words  ;  but 
I  want  you  to  say  you  forgive  me." 

Richard  Dunn  stooped  over  her  and 
kissed  her  forehead.  "  My  dear  child, 
if  there  is  anything  you  need  forgive- 
ness for,  take  it  heartily  ;  but  I  think 
you  are  fanciful  to-day.  I  wish — I  wish 
you  had  been  spared  to  us.  Sarah  and 
I  would  have  striven  to  make  life  pleas- 
ant to  you." 

"  Thank  you  for  all  your  kindness ; 
thank  you  for  ever." 

The  trembling  fingers,  entwined  in 
his,  presently  released  themselves  and 
began  to  work  again.  Mr.  Dunn  did 
not  altogether  like  the  signs.  He  quit- 
ted the  room  to  find  his  wife.  During 
the  interval,  little  Tom  Canterbury  came 
in  with  his  nurse. 

When  the  boy  had  been  taken  down 
to  dessert  the  previous  evening  at  the 
dinner  in  Belgravia — for  we  have  not 
got  beyond  the  day  spoken  of  in  the 
last  chapter — Mrs.  Richard  Dunn  asked 
him  to  go  to  them  on  the  following 
morning  ;  and  Judith  was  told  to  bring 


184 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


him.  In  the  old  days  at  Chilling,  when 
Miss  Annesley  was  the  rector's  daugh- 
ter, she  had  taken  part  in  trying  to 
teach  Judith  to  read.  The  instruction, 
as  previously  hinted,  had  not  come  to 
much,  but  Judith  was  grateful  all  the 
same.  During  this  present  sojourn  in 
London,  she  had  occasionally,  when  out 
with  her  little  charge,  found  herwaj'  to 
Mrs.  Richard  Dunn's.  Tom  had  grown 
to  like  to  go  there,  and  to  see  Belle  An- 
nesley, between  whom  and  himself  a 
great  friendship  had  arisen  ;  in  point  of 
fact  it  was  Belle,  who,  when  her  cousin 
was  starting  for  the  dinner-visit,  had 
asked  her  to  bid  Tom  come. 

And  so  Judith  and  he  had  arrived, 
nothing  loth.  Tom  wore  his  morning 
attire  :  a  plaid  dress  reaching  to  the 
knees,  his  straight  legs  incased  in  little 
white  socks  ;  in  the  afternoon  Mrs. 
Dawkes  would  have  him  decked  out  in 
velvets  and  gewgaws  ;  but  Judith  had 
her  own  way  till  then.  A  quiet, 
thoughtful,  mild  child  was  he,  whose 
disposition  and  temper  were  admirable. 

Belle  Annesley  kissed  him  ;  she  took 
off  his  straw  hat  with  her  own  fragile 
fingers,  and  stroked  the  falling  curls  of 
his  light  hair.  Tom  looked  at  her  wist- 
fully :  it  might  be  that  he  detected  a 
change  in  her  countenance,  for  a  child 
.sometimes  sees  signs  hidden  from  older 
Myes. 

"  Lift  him  up,  Judith." 
There  was  ample  room  for  the  two  on 
the  large  chair,  and  the  boy  was  placed 
side  b}'  side  with  Belle.  After  consider- 
able tugging,  he  succeeded  in  getting  a 
book  out  of  some  mysterious  uuder- 
pocket. 

"  I  brought  it  for  you  to  see,"  he 
said,  as  Judith  left  them  to  go  and  en- 
joy a  gossip  with  Mrs.  Dunn's  nurse. 
"  It  has  got  an  angel  in  it,  and  Jacob's 
ladder.  Mr.  Kage  gave  it  me  last 
night.  Look :  that's  the  angel,  and 
that's  the  ladder,  and  it's  end  is  right 
up  in  heaven." 

Belle  Annesley's  eyes  were  riveted 
on  the  picture  with  as  much  earnest  in- 
terest as  though  she  had  been  a  child 
herself.  Tom,  waiting  for  sympathetic 
"admiration,  heard  none. 

"Isn't  it  pretty,  Belle?  I  should 
like  to  be  an  angel." 

Dropping  the  book,  she  clasped  both 
his  hands  in  hers.  Her  face  and  voice 
were  alike  strangely  earnest. 


"  We  may  both  be  so  shortly,  Tom. 
1  shall.  You  may  not  be  long  after 
me." 

The  words  were  remarkable-^taken 
in  connection  with  what  the  hidden 
future  was  destined  to  bring  forth. 
But  the  dying  sometimes  speak  with 
curious  prevision. 

Tom  Canterbury,  to  judge  by  his 
eyes,  did  not  know  whether  to  be  most 
awed  or  interested.  Belle  had  fallen 
back  in  her  chair,  and  was  plucking  at 
the  shawl  again.  He  thought  his  book 
neglected. 

"Judith  didn't  want  me  to  bring  it, 
Belle.  Mrs.  Dunn  said  last  night  I  was 
to  come." 

"  Yes,  I  wished  for  you,"  answered 
Belle.  "  I  thought  you  were  not  com- 
ing, though  :  it  is  nearly  afternoon." 

"  Judith  didn't  get  read}'.  She  went 
in  to  help  Fry  with  grandmamma." 

Belle  rose  from  her  seat,  and  tottered 
to  a  desk  that  was  on  a  side-table,  hold- 
ing by  the  furniture  as  she  went.  Her 
strength  for  walking  had  almost  passed 
away.  Standing  up  before  the  desk, 
the  shawl  fell  off  her  shoulders,  and  she 
looked  like  a  shadow.  The  child  got 
down  with  a  jump  and  picked  it  up. 
She  tottered  back  again,  holding  some- 
thing in  her  hand. 

It  was  a  beautiful  little  box  of  mother- 
of-pearl,  made  in  the  form  of  a  shell, 
and  inlaid  with  silver.  Inside  was  a 
raised  fret -work  of  silver  enclosing  a 
miniature  painting  in  bright  colors — a 
baby  borne  by  two  angels,  who  were 
gazing  upwards.  Sitting  down,  Belle 
put  it  into  the  boy's  hand  :  the  toy  was 
so  small,  that  his  hand  easily  clasped  it. 
"  My  brother  brought  it  for  me,  when 
he  came  over  from  the  West  Indies  at 
mamma's  death.  Tom,  I  give  it  to 
you.  You  must  keep  it  always  for  my 
sake." 

Tom,  opening  the  lid,  stood  entranced 
with  admiration,  oblivious  of  everything 
but  the  picture  that  so  charmed  him. 
He  had  an  eye  for  bright  colors,  which 
were  wout  to  impart  to  him  a  strange 
delight. 

"  It's  angels  too,"  he  said  breathless- 
ly. "  They  are  carrying  the  baby  up  to 
heaven." 

"  When  you  look  at  it  sometimes 
after  I  am  gone,  Thomas,  remember 
that  they  have  carried  me  up  there," 
she  whispered. 


GEORGE     CANT  E  U  B  L  U  V    8     WILL. 


185 


"  Do  you  like  to  go  ?  "  asked  the  boy, 
somewhat  dubious  on  the  point,  now 
that  it  seemed  to  be  coming  to  action. 

"  Yes." 

"  But  wouldn't  you  like  to  stay  here, 
and  have  playthings  ?  Such  things  as 
this  ?  " 

"No,  not  now.     It  is  so  weary  here." 

She  was  feebly  endeavoring  to  fold  the 
shawl  around  her,  and  said  no  more. 
The  little  exertion  had  fatigued  her ; 
she  lay  back  panting  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  as  if  it  brought  relief,  her  fin- 
gers were  at  work  at  the  shawl  again. 
Mrs.  Dunn,  who  had  entered,  took  in  all 
the  signs  with  a  rapid  searching  glance. 

"  Belle,  my  darling,"  she  said,  pushing 
the  hair  from  the  pale  damp  brow,  "you 
seem  a  little  restless." 

"  Do  I  ?  "  returned  Belle  with  apathy. 
"  I  am  very  tired,  Sarah." 

Tired  indeed  !  Tired  sadly  in  bod}r, 
and  very  tired  with  the  world  and  its 
cares.  Poor  Belle  Annesley  was  dying, 
with  all  her  trouble  upon  her — that  un- 
fortunate love  for  the  man  who  bad 
played  her  false.  It  racked  her  still ;  not 
as  it  had  done,  but. more  than  was  good 
for  her  comfort.  One  great  wish  lay  ever 
upon  her — that  she  could  see  him  once 
again.  It  almost  seemed  to  her  that  she 
could  not  die  without  it.  Foolish,  foolish 
girl !  if  her  death,  she  thought,  should 
but  bring  a  pang  of  repentance  to  him, 
a  bitter  loving  regret,  why,  then  to  her- 
self it  would  be  welcome.  Sentiment 
clung  to  her  to  the  last ;  and  she  wanted 
Barnaby  Dawkes  to  see  the  wreck  she 
bad  become  for  his  sake.  But  she  had 
not  been  able  to  call  up  the  courage  to 
ask  for  him. 

It  was  to  be,  however.  When  Judith 
departed  with  little  Canterbury,  Mrs. 
Dunn  went  downstairs  with  them.  She 
was  standing  for  an  instant  atone  of  the 
front  windows,  and  saw  Thomas  Kage 
pass.  He  had  just  left  the  Miss  Canter- 
bury's at  their  door  after  that  visit  to 
Mrs.  Garston.  She  made  a  sign  to  Mr. 
Kage,  and  he  came  in. 

"  Go  you  up  to  her,  Mr.  Kage,"  she 
said,  after  telling  him  that  both  she  and 
her  husband  fancied  some  change  for  the 
worse  was  approaching  in  Belle  Annes- 
ley. "  See  what  }'ou  think,  and  then 
come  down  and  tell  me ;  I'll  wait  here. 
Mr.  Dunn  has  had  to  go  out,  but  he  will 
not  be  long." 

When    Mr.  Kage    entered  the  room, 


Belle  had  her  eyes  closed.  He  noticed 
the  movement  of  the  fingers  spoken  of 
by  Mrs.  Dunn.  They  were  slowly  at 
work.  She  gave  a  great  start  as  he  ap- 
proached, and  stared  wildly. 

"  0,  is  it  you  ?  "  she  said  in  a  minute, 
an  accent  of  disappointment  in  her  tone. 
"I — I — I  think  I  had  dozed  and  was 
dreaming." 

"  Of  whom  were  you  dreaming, 
Belle  ?  "  he  asked  very  gently,  as  lie  sat 
down  near  her  and  took  one  of  her  wast- 
ed hands  in  his. 

The  pale  cheeks  took  a  tinge  of  bright 
color  at  the  question  ;  the  bine  eyes,  get- 
ting a  little  glassj'  now,  fell  downwards. 
But  she  gave  the  true  answer.  She  gen- 
erally did  give  it  to  Mr.  Kage. 

"  I  was  dreaming  of  Captain  Dawkes. 
I  fancied  he  stood  at  that  door  talking 
to  me  ;  and  when  you  came  up,  I — in 
the  confusion  of  awaking — I  really 
thought  it  was  he." 

"Would  you  like  to  see  him,  my 
dear  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Kage  after  a  pause. 

Another  faint  flush  of  hectic. 

"Perhaps  he  would  not  care  to  come. 
But — if  he  would,  I  should  like  to  say 
good-bye  to  him." 

"  And  how  do  you  feel  to-day  ?  "  re- 
sumed Mr.  Kage,  changing  the  subject 
without  comment.    "Brave  and  strong  ?" 

"  0,  I  feel  about  the  same,"  she  an- 
swered listlessly.     "  I'm  very  tired." 

"  It  is  a  pity  I  disturbed  your  snatch 
of  sleep.  And  for  nothing  either,  for  I 
cannot  stay.  I  have  a  hundred-and-one 
things  to  do  to-day  and  to-morrow." 

"  But  I  shall  see  you  again  ?  "  she 
said,  as  he  stood  up. 

"  Of  course.  I  will  come  in  this  even- 
ing." 

Happening  to  look  back  at  her  as  he 
turned  to  close  the  door,  Thomas  Kage 
could  but  mark  the  eager,  questioning, 
yearning  look  in  the  eyes  that  seemed  to 
follow  him.  But  still  he  said  nothing 
about  Captain  Dawkes.  That  worthy 
gentleman  might  not  choose  to  pay  the 
visit  although  bidden. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?  "  asked 
Sarah  Dunn  anxiously. 

"  I  do  not  see  much  difference  in  her," 
was  Mr.  Kage's  answer.  "  Nevertheless 
I  think  the  end  will  not  be  very  long  de- 
layed." 

"Did  you  notice  what  I  said  about  her 
fingers?" 

"  Yes.     But  I   have   seen   the   same 


186 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


thing  "in  patients  who  have  subsequently 
got  well." 

"  You  are  sure  of  that  ?  " 

Quite.    She  would  like  to  see  Dawkes." 

"  Would  she  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dunn 
in  astonishment.  "  Were  the  case  mine, 
I  would  rather  send  him  miles  away  than 
see  him.     I  do  not  understand  it." 

A  peculiar  expression  crossed  the  face 
of  Thomas  Kage.  Matter-of-fact  rather 
than  imaginative,  Sarah  Dunn  was  just 
one  of  those  who  could  not  be  likely  to 
understand. 

"  Dawkes  may  not  be  willing  to  come," 
observed  Mr.  Kage.  "  He  probably 
would  rather  go  miles  any  other  wa}\" 

But  Barnaby  Dawkes  was  not  alto- 
gether heartless,  and  if  he  had  cared  for 
any  one  in  the  world,  it  was  certainly 
Belle.  As  Thomas  Kage  was  bending 
his  steps  across  one  of  the  squares,  he 
accidentally  met  him  in  his  mail-phaeton, 
two  grooms  seated  behind.  Mr.  Kage 
made  a  sign  that  he  would  speak  with 
him;  and  afterwards  the  Captain  changed 
his  course,  and  pulled  up  at  Mrs.  Richard 
Dunn's  door. 

Her  head  lay  upon  his  arm,  and  the 
tears  were  trickling  down  her  flushed 
cheeks.  Barnaby  Dawkes  was  a  selfish 
man  by  nature  and  by  habit,  indifferent 
to  all  that  did  not  concern  himself,  utter- 
ly careless  of  any  world  save  this  present 
one  ;  but,  looking  on  the  wreck  of  that 
once  sweet  girl,  on  the  unmistakable 
signs  that  said  the  life  would  so  shortly 
close,  he  went  into  a  fit  of  remorse  and 
tenderness,  both  genuine. 

"  You  will  not  quite  forget  me  ?  "  she 
sobbed,  clinging  to  him.  "I  mean  no 
treason  against  your  wife,  Barnaby ;  I 
would  not  for  the  world ;  only — only — 
that  you  will  think  of  me  at  an  odd  mo- 
ment now  and  then." 

Incredible  as  it  may  be  deemed,  little 
as  the  gallant  Captain  might  ever  be- 
lieve it  of  himself  afterwards,  a  tear 
dropped  from  his  eyes  on  her  upturned 
face.  Belle  saw  it,  and  felt  repaid  for 
her  lost  life  and  the  agony  that  had  short- 
ened it. 

"  Don't  grieve  for  me  too  much,  Bar- 
naby ;  I  should  not  like  that.  I  hope 
you  will  be  happy  always,  you  and  your 
wife.  If  she  ever  hears  about  me — 
about  me  and  the  past — give  my  dear 
love  to  her,  and  say  I  said  it." 


"  I  wish  I  had  never  met  you,  child  ! 
I  was  an  awful  brute  to  leave  you  and 
marry  another — and  that's  the  fact.  My 
love  was  all  yours,  Belle  ;  but  I  was  in 
a  feai'ful  state  of  embarrassment,  and 
wanted  the  money.  Why  did  you  care 
so  much  for  me?  Why  did  you  let  it 
prey  upon  you  ?     I  was  not  worth  it." 

Never  a  truer  word  spoke  he  than 
that.  Belle's  restless  fingers,  at  peace 
for  the  moment,  were  entwined  within 
his. 

"  I  daresay  it  was  all  for  the  best," 
she  murmured.  "I  might  have  died  just 
the  same." 

Voices  were  heard  on  the  stairs,  and 
the  Captain  prepared  to  take  his  depar- 
ture. 

"  Say  you  forgive  me,"  he  whispered. 

"  I  forgive  it  all — the  death,  and  the 
pain,  and  the  weariness.  I  hope  we 
shall  meet  in  heaven,  all  of  us,  and  live 
together  in  happiness  for  ever  and  for 
ever.  God  bless  and  keep  you,  Barnaby, 
until  that  time  shall  come  !  " 

It  may  be  that  Barnaby  Dawkes,  irre- 
ligious man  though  he  was,  echoed  the 
wish  for  the  passing  moment.  Wheth- 
er he  did  or  not,  was  known  to  him  alone. 
He  kissed  her  cheeks,  her  brow,  her  lips, 
as  he  had  been  wont  to  kiss  them  in  ear- 
lier days,  and  laid  her  wan  face  back  on 
the  pillow,  and  resigned  her  hands  the 
last. 

"  Good-bye,  Belle.  Good-bye,  my  best 
and  dearest  !  " 

The  voices  were  those  of  Mr.  Dunn 
and  Doctor  Tyndal.  Captain  Dawkes 
exchanged  courtesies  with  them  as  he 
passed,  and  went  out  to  his  carriage. 

When  Thomas  Kage  got  there  in  the 
evening,  according  to  promise,  the  hands 
of  the  dying  girl,  in  her  bed  then,  were 
working  feebly  at  the  counterpane;  the 
advance  shadow  of  death,  no  longer  to 
be  mistaken,  lay  on  the  face.  But  the 
shadow  seemed  to  have  brought  peace 
with  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A    FEW    WHISPEKED    WORDS. 

On  the  pseudo-mosaic  floor  of  a  place 
of  worship — that  was  neither  Protestant 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


187 


church,  nor  Roman-catholic  chapel,  nor 
curiously  decorated  mediaeval  drawing- 
room,  but  partaking  something  of  all 
three — knelt  Keziah  Dawkes.  A  hard 
cold  woman  looked  she,  as  she  rose  and 
sat  down  to  listen  to  the  sermon,  with 
never  a  smile  on  her  gray  leaden  face. 
The  services  did  not  seem  to  bring  much 
cheer  to  her.  When  the  short  sermon 
of  ten  minutes  was  ranted  through — and 
which  Keziah  and  every  other  one  of  the 
scattered  worshippers  present  might  have 
been  defied  to  make  top  or  tail,  or  any 
sort  of  sense  of — she  quitted  her  seat 
and  glided  into  the  street  ;  into  the 
pleasanter  light  of  a  spring  twilight 
evening.  The  place  she  had  just  quitted 
was  almost  dark  at  mid-day;  else  how 
would  the  lighted  candles  on  the  commu- 
nion-table have  borne  effect  ?  For  some 
time  now,  Keziah  Dawkes  had  been  a 
lonety,  disappointed  woman,  finding  her 
heart  and  her  love  thrown  back  upon  her. 
She  had  never  had  but  one  object  of  af- 
fection throughout  her  life — and  that  was 
her  brother  Barnaby.  Worthless  Bar- 
naby  !  But  it  often  happens  that  the 
more  worthless  a  man  is,  the  closer  some- 
body or  other  clings  to  him.  Barnaby 
Dawkes  had  done  nearly  as  much  as  he 
could  do  to  throw  his  sister's  affection 
off;  at  least,  so  it  seemed  to  her  perhaps 
exacting  heart.  Wounded  to  the  core, 
ready  to  die  with  disappointment  and 
weariness,  Keziah  in  sheer  ennui  took  to 
attending  one  of  the  ultra-ritualistic  dail}T 
services  that  were  springing  up  around 
her  as  rapidly  as  mushrooms. 

Time  has  gone  on,  reader.  Nearly 
four  years  have  elapsed  since  the  mar- 
riage of  Barnaby  Dawkes  and  Mrs.  Can- 
terbury. They  have  latterly  been  stay- 
ing almost  entirely  in  London  ;  more 
fashion  to  be  met  with  in  Belgravia  than 
at  the  Rock,  and  both  Major  Dawkes 
and  his  wife  are  votaries  of  it.  He  is 
Major  Dawkes  now  —  having  got  up  a 
step ;  and  the  world  looks  upon  him  as 
one  of  the  most  wealthy  and  flourishing 
officers  in  her  Majesty's  service.  A  few 
people — money-lenders,  lawyers,  and  the 
like — perchance  could  tell  a  different  tale 
— that  there  exists  not  a  more  embarrass- 
ed man  in  secret  than  he. 

Keziah  suspected  something  of  this 
embarrassment ;  but  not  to  its  fullest  ex- 
tent. When  we  love  any  one  very  deep- 
ly, we  seem  to  see,  as  by  intuition   any 


ill  that  may  surround  him.  Keziah  was 
very  little  with  Major  and  Mrs.  Dawkes; 
less  even  than  she  used  to  be,  although 
their  mansion  was  not  far  removed  from 
her  home.  Sometimes  she  would  not  call 
upon  them  once  in  two  months.  She  had 
paid  them  one  visit  at  the  Rock  in  the 
earlier  days  of  their  marriage,  but  the 
invitation  had  never  been  repeated. 

That  a  man  with  Major  Dawkes's  pro- 
pensity to  spend — that  any  one  living  on 
the  scale  he  did,  flinging  away  hundreds, 
ay  and  thousands  of  pounds — should  have 
gone  on  from  three  to  four  mortal  years 
and  not  have  burst  up,  might  have  been 
deemed  one  of  the  marvels  pertaining  to 
Major  Dawkes.  Mrs.  Dawkes's  was  al- 
most what  might  have  been  called  a  regal 
income,  though  in  truth  not  so  much  as 
the  world  set  it  down  at ;  but  Barnaby 
had  fingered  it  in  a  lavish  style.  If  I 
had  ten  thousand  a-vear,  and  spent  twen- 
ty thousand,  it  would  not  need  a  conjur- 
er to  foretell  what  must  come  of  it.  Ke- 
ziah, sharp  and  calculating,  knew  pretty 
well  what  the  state  of  affairs  must  be ; 
and  she  was  looking  for  the  explosion  of 
the  bombshell.  To  her,  it  seemed  almost 
like  retribution  ;  a  judgment  upon  them 
for  their  neglect  of  her. 

But  in  that  well-appointed  Belgravian 
mansion  nothing  was  suspected  of  its 
master's  embarrassment.  He  kept  it  to 
himself.  He  had  no  other  resource  in 
decency  but  to  do  so,  since  the  troubles 
were  wholly  his  own.  For,  it  was  not 
the  state  and  stj'le  in  which  they  lived 
that  could  have  hampered  them,  but  Ma- 
jor Dawkes's  private  pursuits.  Neither 
mistress  nor  servants  knew  aught  of  the 
matter  :  the  latter  were  aware  that  some 
people,  shabby  men  and  others,  intruded 
often  on  the  Major,  who  avoided  them 
when  he  could  ;  and  when  he  could  not, 
held  private  colloquies  with  them  in  his 
stud}-,  aud  showed  them  out  of  doors  him- 
self. The  household  bills,  too,  were  being 
pressed  for. 

Keziah  Dawkes  left  the  chapel — or 
what  she  might  please  to  call  it — behind 
her,  and  walked  steadily  on  to  her  lodg- 
ings ;  the  same  lodgings  where  you  once 
saw  her,  reader.  She  had  lost  them  dur- 
ing that  long  absence,  when  she  was  down 
at  Chilling,  helping  Barnaby  to  scheme 
for  Mrs.  Canterbury  ;  but  she  had  regain- 
ed them.  The  evening  was  chill ;  the 
clouds  chased  each  other  across  the  sky  j 


188 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


the  wind  blew  round  the  corners  with  a 
wintry  sound.  Passing  a  gay  shop-win- 
dow, its  wares  lighted  up  with  the  blazing 
gas,  Keziah's  eyes  were  caught  by  some- 
thing, and  she  stopped  to  look  in. 

"  It's  a  sweet  bonnet,"  she  exclaimed 
after  a  long  gaze  ;  "  and  only  ten-and- 
sixpence  !  I  could  not  make  it  for  much 
less  m}7self;  and  somehow  my  home- 
made bonnets  have  alwa}'s  a  dowd}r  look. 
It's  not  so  high  but  I  could  afford  it ;  and 
spring's  getting  on.  Suppose  I  come  by 
daylight  and  look  at  it  ?  But  then  " — 
pausing — "  there's  aunt  Garston  !  I  don't 
think  she  can  last  much  longer  ;  and  it 
would  be  waste  of  money  to  buy  it,  if  I 
had  to  go  in  mourning  soon  afterwards." 

With  a  lingering  look,  Keziah  turned 
away,  and  continued  her  course  towards 
home,  revolving  the  bonnet  argument  in 
her  mind,  for  and  against  the  purchase. 
The  wind  took  her  cloak,  the  chilly  air 
seemed  to  penetrate  her;  but  Keziah  was 
used  to  wind  and  weather.  Arrived  at 
her  door,  she  opened  it,  and  went  up- 
stairs; taking  off  her  cloak  on  the  land- 
ing, and  shaking  it.  The  tea-things 
were  on  the  table,  glowing  pleasantly  in 
the  firelight ;  and  some  dark  form,  to 
which  her  eye  was  not  accustomed,  filled 
the  easy-chair  with  its  washed-out,  thin 
chintz-cover. 

"  Barnaby  !     Is  it  you  ?  " 

"  What  an  awfullj'  long  time  you've 
been  coming  in!"  was  the  Major's  re- 
sponsive greeting.  "  Thought  you  must 
have  gone  out  to  make  a  night  of  it." 

"  I  have  only  been  to  evening  pray- 
ers." 

"  Been  to  what  ?  " 

"  The  evening  service  at  a  new  chap- 
el.    A  place  we  have  got  opened  here." 

"  It's  not  Sunday,"  said  the  Major, 
6  taring. 

"  I  know  that.  What  am  I  to  do, 
alone  here  always?  never  a  soul  to 
speak  to  !  The  evening  services  break 
the  monotony  ;  it's  an  object  to  get  out 
for  :  but  I  don't  go  every  evening.  I'd 
not  have  gone  now  had  I  thought  you 
were  coming." 

She  put  her  bonnet  on  the  bed  in  the 
inner  room,  came  back,  and  began  to 
make  the  tea.  The  shining  copper  ket- 
tle stood  singing  on  the  brass  plate  ;  a 
new  loaf  and  some  butter  were  on  the 
table. 

"  You  will  take  a  cup  of  tea,  Barna- 
by ?  » 


"  Not  I.     Wishy-washy  stuff !  " 

"  Some  bread-and-butter,  then  ?" 

"  That's  worse." 

"  Is  there  anything  else  that  I  can 
get  you  ?  " 

"No;  thanks.  I'm  going  home  to 
dinner." 

Keziah  took  the  candles  from  the 
mantelpiece,  and  lighted  both  in  honor 
of  her  company  ;  when  alone,  she  gener- 
ally contented  herself  with  one.  That 
Barnab}'  had  come  for  some  aid  or  oth- 
er, she  was  sure  of;  but  she  did  not  see 
what  he,  the  great  man,  could  want  from 
her  now.  The  candles  lighted  up  his 
face  ;  the  same  handsome  face,  with  the 
shining  black  eyes  and  hair  as  of  yore; 
but  somewhat  of  perplexity  sat  on  his 
features.  He  was  leaning  forward  to- 
wards the  fire,  and  pulling  at  his  mous- 
tache moodily,  as  if  in  a  brown  study. 
Keziah  poured  out  her  tea,  and  sat  sip- 
ping it, 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  do  anything 
for  me  with  the  old  party?"  he  sudden- 
ly began. 

"In  what  way?"  coldly  asked  Ke- 
ziah; knowing  that  the  "old  party" 
meant  Mrs.  Garston. 

"  I  don't  believe  she'll  last  a  month 
longer,  Keziah." 

"  She  will  not  last  long ;  I  am  sure 
of  that,  When  those  vigorous  old 
women  begin  to  fail — as  she  is  now  fail- 
ing— their  time  is  drawing  to  a  close." 

There  ensued  a  pause.  Keziah,  brim- 
ful of  her  wrongs  and  Barnaby's  ingrati- 
tude, would  not  prompt  him  by  so  much 
as  a  word.  She  cut  herself  a  piece  of 
bread-and-butter. 

"  I  want  you  to  see  her  for  me,  Ke- 
ziah." 

"  To  see  her  for  you  !  " 

The  chilling  tone  grated  on  the  Ma- 
jor's ear.     He  turned  his  head. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Kezi- 
ah ?  " 

"  The  matter  with  me  ?  "  repeated 
Keziah,  as  if  bent  on  reechoing  his 
words.     "  Nothing  more  than  usual." 

fi  You  have  not  been  pleasant  with 
me  for  some  time,  Keziah." 

"  AVhat  have  you  been  with  me  ?  " 

"  I !  " — the  Major  turned  to  the  fire 
again  in  a  frightful  access  of  gloom — ■ 
"  I've  not  meant  to  be  anything  else. 
But — I  am  awfully  worried,  Keziah." 

"  You  bring  your  worry  on  yourself, 
I  expect." 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


189 


He  did  not  attempt  to  gainsay  it ;  he 
had  never  been  otherwise  than  tolerably 
candid  with  his  sister. 

"  I  am  in  a  mess,  Keziah.  If  I  can- 
not .get  helped  out  of  it,  Heaven  knows 
what  the  end  will  be/' 

"  You  have  been  in  many  a  mess  be- 
fore." 

"  Never  such  as  this.  I  want  to  talk 
it  over  with  you  :  as  I  used  to  talk  over 
the  troubles  of  the  old  dajrs,  Kezzy." 

"  Yes  !  You  come  to  me  when  you 
need  anything — never  else.  Barnab}',  I 
do  not  believe  Heaven  ever  created  your 
fellow  for  selfishness  !" 

"  I  am  not  selfish  !  "  snapped  the 
Major. 

"  Not  selfish  !  Listen,  Barnaby  :  I 
may  be  the  better,  perhaps,  for  letting 
loose  a  little  of  the  grievances  long 
burning  within  me.  When  we  were 
brother  and  sister  together,  who  helped 
you  as  I  did — and  loved  you — and  cher- 
ished you?  Who  stood  between  you 
and  aunt  Garston,  and  told  her  lies 
without  end  to  cover  your  faults,  and  di- 
vert her  shrewd  suspicions  from  you  ? 
Who  parted  with  all  available  means, 
that  you  should  be  pulled  out  of  ditches 
and  straits  ?  Who  helped  you  to  a  rich 
wife  ;  and  shielded  you  in  all  ways  when 
y  >u  wanted  shielding  ?  Answer  me 
that." 

"  You  did."  avowed  the  Major,  fancy- 
ing an  open  policy  might  be  the  best 
in  the  awkward  situation. 

"  Yes :  I.  You  married  your  wife, 
and  came  into  what  would  once  have 
seemed  to  you  incalculable  wealth  — 
what  was  so,  in  fact ;  and  how  did  you 
recompense  me  ?  By  throwing  me 
over,  as  if  I  were  some  menial  that  you 
had  no  longer  work  for." 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Keziah  !  " 

"  Is  it  nonsense  ?  You  know  better. 
It  is  true  you  repaid  me  the  bare  money 
I  had  advanced ;  but  not  a  fraction  over, 
for  thanks  or  interest.  Without  the  re- 
payment I  could  not  have  lived,  for  it 
was  my  income  that  I  forestalled  and 
risked  for  you  ;  had  it  not  been  my  in- 
come— had  it  been  saved  money — I  don't 
believe  you  would  have  ever  troubled 
yourself  to  repay  it  at  all.  Since  your 
marriage  you  have  not  treated  me  as  a 
sister — I  was  nobody  in  your  fresh  ties." 

'"Twas  not  that,"  burst  forth  the 
Major.  "  Ties  !  The  ties  have  never 
been  to  me  half  what  you  were." 


"It  has  been  self  with  3Tou  always, 
Barnaby — self,  self,  self,"  she  resumed, 
the  hard  tone  subsiding  into  a  plaintive 
one,  for  the  avowal  had  somewhat  ap- 
peased her.  "It  of  course  was  nothing 
for  your  wife  to  neglect  me — it  was  to 
be  expected,  perhaps  :  but  I  did  not  look 
for  it  from  you;  and  the  pain  has  been 
hard  to  bear." 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  tell 
you  the  truth,"  he  said,  "  though  I've 
never  told  it  before.  The  neglect  has 
been  Caroline's.  She — she  took  a  dis- 
like to  you,  Keziah,  goodness  knows 
why  ;  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  pre- 
vail upon  her  to  have  you  with  us,  ex- 
cept for  that  short  visit  when  3'ou  came 
to  the  Rock.  My  will  has  been  good  to 
have  you — to  have  you  always;  but  she 
would  not." 

It  was  all  very  well  to  excuse  himself 
in  this  way.  He  had  been  quite  aa 
willing  to  neglect  her  as  his  wife  was. 
Keziah  was  coming  round.  The  old 
love  for  him  had  only  been  smouldering; 
it  would  never  leave  her  but  with  life. 

"  It  may  be  as  you  say,  Barnaby  ;  but 
your  wife  is  not  3^011.  Y011  might  have 
come  to  see  me — 3rou  might  have  been 
generous  to  me  ;  it  was  in  your  power 
to  make  m3T  life  bright,  and  you  have  not 
attempted  to  throw  even  a  ray  on  it.  A 
hundred  times  have  I  sat  here,  b3r  my 
solitary  fire,  on  a  winter's  evening,  re- 
peating over  to  nwself  that  old  song  of 
Shakespeare's  :  "  Blow,  blow,  thou  win- 
try wind ;  thou  art  not  so  unkind  as 
man's  ingratitude." 

Apparently  the  remembrance  overcame 
her.  Keziah  Dawkes  burst  into  tears, 
and  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  face. 
Barnab3r  could  not  remember  ever  to 
have  seen  her  CT3'  in  all  his  life.  A  sud- 
den impulse  of  affection — if  such  could 
exist  in  the  man's  nature — or  of  self-in- 
terest well  acted,  caused  him  to  put  out 
his  hand,  and  clasp  fondly  the  one  lying 
unoccupied  on  her  lap.  Almost  at  once 
she  dried  the  tears,  as  though  ashamed 
to  have  given  way  to  them. 

"  Let  bygones  be  bygones,  Keziah  ; 
there's  nobody  in  the  world  I  care  for 
half  as  much  as  I  do  for  you  ;  there's  no 
one  else  I  would  tell  my  troubles  to. 
Will  you  hear,  and  help  me?  " 

"  I  am  willing  to  hear  you,  Barnaby. 
But  as  to  help,  I  should  not  think  any  of 
that  lies  in  m3T  power." 

"  Substantial  help  of  course  does  not. 


190 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


You  need  not  fear  I  wish  to  ask  for  the 
advance  of  your  little  income  again.  It 
would  be  of  no  use  to  me  ;  but  as  a 
bucket  of  water  to  tbe  flowing  Thames. 
AVhat  I  do  want  is,  that  you  would  see 
Mrs.  Garston,  and  get  her — get  her  to 
make  her  will  in  my  favor.  Not  a  stone 
must  be  left  unturned,  Keziah." 

"  You  want  it  badly  ?  " 

"  Badly  !  Worse  than  Keziah,  happi- 
ly for  her,  had  as  yet  any  notion  of.  The 
Major  drew  a  sketch  of  his  embarrass- 
ments and  difficulties  ;  and  Keziah  grew 
a  little  frightened. 

"Barnaby!  How  could  you  have 
been  so  mad  ?  " 

"  Money  melts,"  said  the  Major 
gloomily.  "It  is  only  when  a  man 
pulls  himself  up  that  he  sees  how  much 
has  gone." 

"  But  how  can  you  have  got  into  this 
state  ?  " 

"  The  pigs  know,"  he  wrathfully  an- 
swered ;    "  /  don't." 

"  I  suppose — it  is — the  play,"  she  said 
in  a  hesitating  whisper.  "  O  Barnaby ! 
and  you  so  faithfully  resolved  to  leave  it 
off  when  you  married  Mrs.  Canterbury  !  " 

"A  man  could  leave  off  many  things, 
but  for  the  cursed  temptation  that  sur- 
rounds him  on  all  sides  in  this  miserable 
town.  What's  the  good  of  his  resolves 
then  ?  » 

"  I  suppose  it  has  been  going  from  bad 
to  worse — bad  to  worse  ?  " 

"  It  is  pretty  bad  now,  I  know  that." 

"  What  can  be  done  ?  " 

tl  I  must  get  some  money.  If  I  don't 
get  that — "  here  the  Major  stopped. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Keziah. 

"  I  must  get  it ;  that's  all,"  repeated 
he. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  a  great  deal  that  you 
want  ?  " 

"  Tolerable." 

"  And  have  you  any  idea  how  it  is  to 
be  had  ?  " 

"  I've  run  it  over  in  my  mind  ;  I  have 
been  doing  nothing  else  for  some  time 
past ;  and  I  see  only  two  waj's  possible. 
That  Kage  should  advance  me  some  of 
Tom  Canterbury's  hoards  ;  or  that  old 
Mother  Garston  should  put  me  down  for 
*a  pot  of  money  in  her  will." 

"  Is  either  likely  ?  "  asked  Keziah,  in 
a  tone  that  said  volumes. 

"  Deuced  unlikely.  I  have  tried 
Kage :  went  down  to  his  chambers,  and 
put  the  matter  to  him  in  as  favorable  a 


light  as  circumstances  allowed.  He  did 
not  entertain  it ;  it  would  not  have  been 
him  if  he  had,  hang  him  !  He  stopped 
me  off-hand,  in  his  coldly  civil  manner, 
and  as  good  as  showed  me  the  door." 

Keziah  shook  her  head. 

"  You  would  find  it  difficult,  I  am  sure, 
to  get  anj'thing  of  that  kind  out  of  Mr. 
Kage ;  he  sticks  up  for  principle.  He 
would  be  afraid  of  not  getting  it  paid 
back  ;  and  that  either  he  must  refund,  or 
little  Canterbury  be  a  loser." 

"  He  was  afraid  of  something — and  be 
shot  to  him  !  I  hate  the  man.  Anyway, 
that  outlet  seems  closed  ;  and  there's  only 
Mrs.  Garston  to  fall  back  upon." 

Keziah,  in  her  secret  heart,  knew 
there  was  no  more  chance  of  Barnabj's 
getting  money  from  her,  by  will  or  other- 
wise (beyond  what  she  might  have  al- 
read}'  left  him),  than  there  was  of  his  get- 
ting it  from  Mr.  Kage.  Less,  in  fact  : 
of  the  two,  she  considered  there  would  be 
more  hope  with  the  barrister. 

"  Barnaby,  you  may  put  aunt  Garston 
out  of  the  question,  for  she  will  never 
lend  you  any,  or  leave  you  much." 

"  You  must  try  what  you  can  do," 
said  the  Major  irritably. 

"  She  would  not  hear  me.  If  I  per- 
sisted in  pressing  the  question,  she  would 
call  her  servants  to  show  me  out  of  the 
house.  Since  that — that  unhappy  affair, 
she  has  never  once  allowed  me  to  men- 
tion your  name." 

Barnaby  Dawkes  lifted  his  eyes  in 
surprise. 

"  What  affair?" 

"  Of  Belle  Annesley." 

A  minute's  silence.  Keziah  turned 
round,  and  drank  what  tea  was  left  in  her 
cup. 

"  Keziah,"  he  said  hoarsely,  his  black 
eyes  taking  quite  a  fierce  gleam  as  he 
looked  at  her — a  gleam  born  of  trouble 
— "  I  tell  }'Ou  that  I  must  have  money, 
though  I  move  heaven  and  earth  to  get 
it." 

"  My  will  is  good  to  give  it  you,  Bar- 
by,"  she  answered,  all  the  old  affection 
coming  back  with  a  rush  ;  "but  when  I 
know — I  know — that  the  notion  of  get- 
ting it  from  Mrs.  Garston  is  more  vision- 
ary than  that  wind  now  sweeping  past  the 
window,  it  would  be  foolish  of  me  to  de- 
cieve  you  with  hope.  Could  you  not  bor- 
row money  upon  your  income  ?  Upon 
your  wife's  income,  I  mean." 

"  I  have   done  a  little  in  that  way," 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


191 


acknowledged  the  Major.  "  Can't  get 
another  stiver  on  it  from  any  money- 
lender breathing;  have  tried  the  greater 
portion  of  'em.  Don't  you  see  ?  if  she 
died  to-morrow,  it  would  not  come  to  me, 
but  to  the  boy  !  and  they  are  cautious." 

"  1  don't  quite  understand." 

"  Should  Caroline  die  in  the  boy's  life- 
time, the  income  she  enjoys  lapses  to 
him  ;  should  he  die  in  hers,  while  he  is  a 
minor,  his  money  lapses  to  her.  When 
old  Canterbury  made  his  will,  he  seemed 
to  forget  that  anybody  existed  in  the 
world  but  those  two." 

"  And  should  the  boy  die  after  he  is  of 
age,  to  whom  does  it  lapse  then  ?  " 

"  To  whomsoever  he  shall  will  it.  It's 
an  awful  lot  of  money,  his  is ;  and  Kage 
will  take  sharp  care  of  the  accumulations. 
By  Jove  !  when  I  remember  sometimes 
that  that  miserable  little  unit  of  six  years 
old  is  keeping  me  out  of  wealth,  I'm — 
I'm — savage." 

"  Don't,  Barnabv." 

"  Don't  what  ?  " 

"  Talk  in  that  way.  You  should  keep 
such  thoughts  down,"  added  Keziah  sen- 
sibly. "The  thing  is  so,  and  you  can- 
not alter  it.  You  ought  to  have  begun 
at  first  to  put  by  out  of  }rour  wife's  large 
income,  and  insured  her  life." 

"How  I  hate  Kage!"  growled  the 
Major.  "Any  other  trustee  would  have 
accommodated  me  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

"I  don't  think  there  has  ever  been 
much  love  lost  between  you  and  him." 

"Curse  him  !  It  is  he  who  hopes  to 
come  in  for  that  old  creature's  money. 
He  has  her  ear  always.  I'd  not  bet  a 
crown  that  it  is  not  he  who  is  keeping  up 
the  ball  against  me." 

Keziah  shook  her  head. 

"Wrong,  Barnaby.  I  do  not  fancy  he 
will  come  in  for  her  money  ;  and,  though 
he  is  no  favorite  of  mine,  I  believe  he  is 
too  honorable  to  touch  the  ball  against 
you,  let  alone  keep  it  up." 

Major  Dawkes  rose. 

"  Will  you  see  her  to-morrow  ?  Do  as 
I  bid  you,  Keziah  :  move  heaven  and 
earth  to  get  her  to  remember  me  well. 
"  I'd  say  almost  forge  a  will  !  "  he  added 
impulsively — though,  it  must  be  confess- 
ed, without  any  real  meaning  —  "for 
money  I  must  have." 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Barnaby, 
if  I  suggest  to  you  another  course.     I 


do  so,  only  in  the  conviction  that  the 
two  you  mention  are  hopeless." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Be  a  bankrupt  at  once." 

Major  Dawkes  glared  a  little.  He  a 
bankrupt ! 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  say,  Ke- 
ziah." 

"  I  see  the  social  disadvantages  just  as 
well  as  you  ;  but  at  least  you  would  be 
clear.  Of  course  I  don't  mean  a  regular 
bankruptcy  as  tradespeople  have  to  go 
through — I  mean  privately  ;  what  they 
call  whitewashed." 

"  I  can't  be." 

"Can't  be?" 

"  Will  you  help  me,  or  won't  you  ?  " 
he  repeated  in  desperation.  "  There's 
more  necessity  for  help  than  you  know 

yet."  ^ 

"  What  necessity?  Tell  me  all,  Bar- 
nab}'',  if  you  have  not  told  it.  It  may 
be  better.  Perhaps  we  are  at  cross-pur- 
poses." 

It  is  possible  that  the  Major  thought 
it  might  be  better.  He  hesitated  for  half 
a  moment,  looking  at  her  up-turned  face  ; 
then  he  whispered  two  or  three  words  in 
her  ear,  and  went  out,  whistling  softly, 
leaving  Keziah  as  white  as  ashes. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

CALLED  OUT  OF  THE  RECEPTION- 
ROOM. 

Lamps  at  the  door  and  carriages  dash- 
ing up  to  it,  and  the  shouting  of  clashing 
coachmen,  and  the  sweet  scent  of  exotics 
through  the  hall  and  up  the  staircase, 
proclaimed  that  Major  and  Mrs.  Dawkes 
were  holding  a  reception.  Strictly  speak- 
ing, it  was  hers.  When  the  Major  got 
home,  after  his  interview  with  Keziah, 
he  had  barely  time  to  get  his  dinner-coat 
on.  Half-a-dozen  people  dined  with  them, 
and  the  reception  came  later.  The  Ma- 
jor had  quite  forgotten  there  was  to  be  a 
party,  if  indeed  he  had  ever  been  made 
aware  of  it. 

He  was  beginning  to  hate  these  crowds 
at  his  own  home.  Careless  -  natured 
though  he  was,  there  were  certain  dan- 
gers besetting  his  path  that  half  fright- 
ened him ;  and  the  mob  jarred  upon  his 
nerves. 


192 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


Mrs.  Dawkes  did  not  consult  him  when 
she  should  hold  her  receptions  ;  and  was 
not  likely  to.  As  yet  the  dangers  were 
at  a  tolerable  distance;  and  the  Major, 
always  sanguine,  hoped  to  avert  them. 

Not  one  person  do  we  know  amidst  the 
crowd.  Satins,  feathers,  fans,  bouquets, 
jostle  the  black  coats  of  men  ;  a  goodly 
company;  but  to  us  they  are  strangers. 
Mrs.  Dawkes,  in  white  silk  and  lace,  her 
golden  hair  worn  carelessly — and  perhaps 
that  is  the  chief  reason  of  its  looking  so 
wondrously  beautiful — stands  to  receive 
them.  But  now  some  one  comes  in 
whom  we  do  know — Thomas  Kage  the 
barrister.  And  his  presence  in  that  house 
is  so  very  rare — at  least  at  its  gay  doings 
— that  Major  Dawkes  lifts  his  supercili- 
ous e}-ebrows,  and  wonders  audibly  what 
the  dickens  has  brought  him. 

This.  Somebody  had  said  in  his  ear 
lately,  that  Mrs.  Dawkes  was  killing  her- 
self— killing  herself  with  the  dissipated 
life  she  led.  That  she  was  looking  just  as 
though  she  had  one  foot  in  the  grave, 
and  might  be  in  it  now  before  her  moth- 
er, if  she  did  not  take  care. 

For  that  poor  old  shaking  scarecrow 
was  alive  yet.  A  sad  burden  to  herself, 
a  wearing  trouble  to  all  around  her,  she 
existed  on,  never  moving  out  of  the  one 
room  she  occupied  in  her  house  at  Chill- 
ing. Fry,  her  maid,  had  quitted  her 
place,  strength  and  patience  alike  reduc- 
ed, and  had  taken  service  with  Mrs. 
Dawkes.  But  it  is  not  with  Mrs.  Kage 
that  we  have  anything  to  do. 

So  Thomas  Kage  came  to.  see.  He 
generally  had  a  standing  card  for  Mrs. 
Dawkes's  assemblies.  In  spite  of  his 
non-attendance,  she  always  sent  them  ; 
and  he  thought  he  would  for  once  make 
use  of  it.  He  also  wanted  to  say  a  word 
to  the  Major.  Drawing  aside  to  let  the 
crowd  pass  in  advance,  he  stood  against 
the  wall  while  he  scanned  her. 

Even  so.  She  was  looking  thin,  worn, 
ill.  Dark  circles  were  round  her  eyes  ; 
her  lips  were  feverish  ;  her  cough — she 
coughed  three  or  four  times — had  a  hol- 
low hacking  sound.  A  strange  pang  shot 
through  the  heart  of  Thomas  Kage. 

"  You  here  !"  exclaimed  Caroline,  her 
face  lighting  up  with  pleasure  as  she 
met  Mr.  Kage's  hand.  "  I  should  think 
it  would  rain  gold  to-morrow." 

"  Because  my  appearance  here  is  so 
rare  ?  " 


"  You  know  it  is.  If  my  poor  recep- 
tions were  poison,  Thomas,  you  could 
not  eschew  them  more  than  you  do." 

"  I  wish  I  could  induce  you  to  eschew 
them,  Caroline." 

"  I !     That  is  good  !  " 

"  You  are  looking  very  thin." 

"  Yes,  I  am  thin.  I  have  not  been 
well  lately." 

"  What  has  been  the  matter  ?  " 

"  O,  a  cold,  I  think.  I  have  spit  a 
little  blood  once  or  twice." 

"  Caroline  !  " 

She  laughed  at  his  look  of  consterna- 
tion. 

"  It  was  ever  so  many  weeks  ago. 
Nothing  but  the  cough  brought  it  on. 
One  night,  coming  out  of  St.  James's 
Hall,  the  carriage  could  not  get  up.  Major 
Dawkes  was  in  a  hurry  to  go  somewhere, 
so  we  walked  to  it.  I  had  nothing  on  my 
neck  but  a  thin  lace  cape,  and  the  cold 
caught  my  chest.  1  am  quite  well  again. 
It  is  the  sitting  up  late  and  the  rackety 
life  we  lead  that  makes  me  look  thin." 

"  Caroline,  I  am  glad  to  hear  }tou  ac- 
knowledge that  fact.  To  lead  this  life 
always  would  injure  one  twice  as  strong 
as  you  are.  There's  reason  in  roasting 
eggs,  you  know." 

"  Apropos  of  what  ?  " 

"But  there's  no  reason  in  leading  it 
without  cessation,"  continued  Mr.  Kag^, 
following  out  his  argument.  "  Why 
don't  you  go  down  to  the  block  ?  " 

Caroline  shrugged  her  pretty  shoul- 
ders. The  diamonds  resting  on  her  neck 
(Olive  Canterbury's  diamonds  by  right) 
glittering  in  their  marvellous  brightness. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  die  of  ennui, 
Thomas  ?     I  should  if  I  went  there." 

"  You  did  not  die  of  it  when  you  lived 
there  in  the  days  gone  by." 

"  But  I  had  not  then  tried  a  London 
life.  It  is  dull  for  me  there,  Thomas. 
You  cannot  say  otherwise ;  and  the  Ma- 
jor never  stays  there  with  me.  The  last 
time  I  went  there,  if  he  came  down  for 
a  couple  of  daj-s,  he  was  all  restlessness 
until  he  got  off  again.  He  has  his  pur- 
suits here,  his  brother  officers  and  that, 
and  cannot  bear  to  tear  himself  away 
from  them.  In  July,  or  August  at  the 
latest,  I  shall  go  with  little  Tom  to  one 
of  the  quiet  German  baths  for  two 
months.     It  will  set  us  both  up." 

"Tom  is  not  very  strong,"  he  re- 
marked. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


193 


"  He  was  as  strong  and  healthy  a 
little  fellow  born  as  could  be,  but  he  has 
ailed  somewhat  lately.  They  say  his 
chest  is  weak." 

"  I  know  what  I  should  say — if  you 
will  allow  me,  Caroline." 

"  Say  on,"  she  laughingly  rejoined. 

"  That  it  is  the  confinement  in  London 
that  disagrees  with  him.  For  the  first 
three  or  four  years  of  the  child's  life  he 
.was  kept  chiefly  in  the  healthy  country 
air,  and  then  you  transplanted  him  to 
this  close  town.  Suppose  }Tou  treated  a 
plant  so.  It  would  soon  droop,  if  .not 
die." 

Mrs.  Dawkes  grew  grave.  The  argu- 
ment struck  her. 

"  There  is  really  nothing  amiss  with 
the  child,  Thomas  ;  except  that  he  has 
lately  looked  delicate." 

"  But  he  should  look  hardy,  and  not 
delicate.  I  say,  Caroline,  that  he  re- 
quires country  air.     And  so  do  you." 

"  He  has  a  wonderful  affinity  with  me, 
that  child,"  exclaimed  Caroline  fondly. 
"  If  I  droop,  he  seems  to  droop.  You 
come  to  see  him  often er  than  you  do  me, 
sir." 

"  Is  it  my  fault  if  you  lie  in  bed  of  a 
morning  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Kage  in  a  laugh- 
ing tone.  "  In  going  to  the  Temple  I 
sometimes  walk  round  here  :  it  is  the 
most  convenient  time  for  me  and  for 
Tom.  '  Mamma's  not  up,'  he  always 
says." 

The  soft  strains  of  a  band  in  another 
apartment  rose  on  their  ear.  Caroline 
passed  her  arm  within  her  cousin's. 

"  You  will  go  through  a  quadrille  with 
me,  Thomas  ?  "  she  whispered. 

And  Mr.  Kage  heard  it  with  intense 
surprise. 

"  A  quadrille  !  I !  Why,  do  you  know 
how  long  it  is  since  I  danced  one  ?  " 

"  How  long  is  it  ?  " 

"  So  long  that  I  cannot  recollect. 
Yes,  I  do.  The  last  time  I  danced  a 
quadrille  was  that  long  bygone  year 
when  I  was  staying  with  my  mother  at 
Little  Bay.  I  danced  it  with  you,  Car- 
oline." 

Their  eyes  met,  quite  unintentionally 
on  either  side  ;  and  for  a  brief  moment 
•the  sweet  fantasy  of  that  departed  time 
was  recalled  to  either  heart. 

" 1  have  never  danced  one  since,"  said 
Mr  Kage. 

"  But  vou  will  this  evening  ?  " 
12 


"  I  do  not  think  3'ou  ought  to  dance 
at  all.  You  give  yourself  too  much  fa- 
tigue without  that." 

"  I  will  be  good,  and  have  but  this 
one,  if  you  will  dance  it  with  me., 
There  ;  that's  a  promise." 

"  Really,  Caroline,  I  do  not  remember 
the  figures." 

She  gently  drew  him  on,  and  he  stood 
up  with  her.  Two  or  three  very  young 
men,  embryo  barristers,  put  up  their 
glasses  when  they  saw  him,  and  laughed 
with  each  other.  There  was  nothing  to 
laugh  at,  either  in  him  or  his  dancing; 
but  they  had  never  seen  the  sight  be- 
fore. 

Later,  when  looking  about  for  Major 
Dawkes,  in  the  rooms  and  out  of  them, 
and  unable  to  find  him,  Judith  appeared 
in  view,  coming  down  the  stairs. 

"  I  never  see  such  a  child,"  she  ex- 
claimed to  Mr.  Kage,  between  whom  and 
herself  there  was  much  confidence  on  the 
score  of  her  little  charge.  "Just  look, 
sir" — indicating  a  bit  of  folded  paper 
in  her  hand.  "  Because  his  mamma  did 
not  have  him  in  to  say  good-night,  he 
has  been  writing  this  to  her,  and  made 
me  bring  it. — 0,  it's  you,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Dawkes  opened  the  paper,  hold- 
ing it  so  that  Thomas  Kage  could  see. 

"My  dearest  mamma,  I  say  good- 
night to  you.  You  must  come  and  kiss 
me  when  the  people  are  gone.  I  shall 
lie  awake  looking  at  the  angels.  I  have 
said  my  prayers." 

"What  does  he  mean  by  'looking 
at  the  angels' ?"  questioned  Mr.  Kage 
of  Caroline. 

"  0,  he  means  that  little  toy  that  poor 
Belle  Annesley  gave  him.  He  never 
goes  to  bed  without  it,  does  he,  Judith  ?  " 

"  Never,  ma'am  ;  there  he  is  now,  set 
up  on  end  in  his  little  bed,  and  the  thing 
open  before  him." 

"  You  ought  to  make  him  go  to  sleep, 
Judith." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how,  ma'am," 
replied  the  girl  respectfully ;  "  he's 
a'most  as  fond  of  music  as  he  is  of  his 
angels.  There'll  be  no  sleep  for  him  till 
the  tunes  have  shut  up  for  the  night." 

"  I  will  come  to  him  before  I  go  to 
bed,"  said  Caroline,  escaping  to  her 
guests. 

But  Mr.  Kage  thought  he  should  like 
to  see  the  003'  then,  and  turned  towards 
the   stairs.     It   was  a   frightfully  high 


194 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


liouse,  this  Belgravian  mansion ;  the 
roof  pretty  nigh  in  the  clouds.  This 
floor  was  devoted  to  reception-rooms  ;  on 
the  next  were  the  best  bed-chambers; 
on  the  one  above  that,  slept  Tom  ;  and 
there  were  the  cloud  apartments  yet,  no 
end  to  them.  The  day  and  the  night 
nursery  opened  one  into  the  other  ;  they 
were  rather  small,  for  on  that  landing 
were  crowded  several  rooms. 

Tom  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  the  purple- 
silk  curtain  at  its  head  drawn  between 
his  face  and  the  door.  Mrs.  Dawkes  was 
careful  of  her  treasure,  as  though  he 
v  ere  some  rich  toy,  and  surrounded  him 
with  comforts.  He  thought  it  was  his 
nurse  coming  back. 

"  Did  you  get  to  see  her,  Judith  ?  " 

"Yes,  and  gave  the  document." 

The  answer  was  in  Mr.  Kage's  voice, 
and  the  boy  put  aside  the  silk  curtain 
with  a  joyful  shout.  Not  a  loud  shout ; 
he  was  never  boisterous,  as  boys  mostly 
are.  His  fair  curls  were  brushed  back  ; 
It  is  white  night-gown  lay  smooth  on  his 
shoulders  ;  before  him,  on  the  counter- 
pane, was  the  pretty  toy  given  him  by 
Utile. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  this  line  of 
conduct,  young  sir  ?  Sitting  up  like  this, 
when  3Tou  should  be  fast  asleep  !  " 

Tom  laughed.  "I  am  hearing  the 
music  !  "  he  said. 

•'  Do  you  make  a  point  of  listening  to 
it  always  at  these  hours,  when  it  ma}7  be 
going  on  ?  " 

"  Yes,  always,"  said  Tom  stoutly  ;  "  I 
wish  they'd  play  '  Here  we  suffer  grief 
and  pain  '  !  " 

"  What  may  that  be  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Kage. 

"  It's  a  song  Fry  taught  me.  Shall  I 
sing  a  verse  of  it  to  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  down-stairs 
music  at  the  time  ;  and  the  boj7  began, 
in  his  weak,  gentle,  but  very  sweet 
voice  :  a  voice  that  would  be  worth  hear- 
ing some  day  if  he  lived — 

"  Here  we  sutler  grief  and  pain, 
Here  we  meet  to  part  again, 

In  heaven  we  part  no  more. 
O.  that  will  be  joyful,  joyful,  joyful ! 
O,  that  will  be  joyful ! 

When  we  meet  to  part  no  more." 

The  boy,  who  had  clasped  his  hands 
as  he  sang,  unclasped  them,  and  looked 
up. 

"  You  are  a  curious  child,"  thought 
Mr.  Kage. 


"  The  other  verse  is  about  little  chil- 
dren ;  but  1  don't  know  it  quite  yet.  It 
begins,  "  Little  children  will  be  there." 
In  heaven,  you  know." 

Thomas  Kage  made  no  answer.  He 
was  gazing  down,  lost  in  thought,  on  the 
boy's  delicate  face.  An  idea  came  over 
him,  almost  like  a  prevision,  that  the 
lad  would  not  live  beyond  the  age  of 
childhood.  For  a  moment  regret  had 
full  place. 

"  God  knows  best,"  he  said,  in  his  in- 
ward heart  ;  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
child's  head,  and  kept  it  there. 

"  Where's  Judith,  Mr.  Kage?" 

The  question  recalled  him  to  present 
things ;  and  Judith's  step  was  even 
then  heard.  Mr.  Kage  went  down,  in- 
tending to  find  Major  Dawkes  as  he  de- 
parted, and  say  the  word  he  wished  to 
say.  But  the  Major  seemed  not  easy  to 
be  found. 

A  short  while  before  this,  one  of  the 
servants  had  made  his  way  quietly  to 
his  master,  saying  in  a  whisper  that 
he  was  wanted  below.  The  man,  Rich- 
ard by  name,  was  attached  more  than 
any  of  the  rest  to  his  master's  personal 
service,  and  knew  pretty  well  about  his 
embarrassments. 

"Wanted  at  this  hour!"  exclaimed 
the  Major  haughtily.     "  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  It's  Mr.  Jessup,  sir." 

"  Mr.  Jessup  !  Did  vou  admit 
him  ?  " 

"  He  admitted  himself,  sir.  The 
front  doors  are  open  to-night." 

"  You  are  a  fool,  Richard,"  said  the 
Major  wrathful! v- 

Mr.  Jessup  was  the  Major's  principal 
lawyer.  His  coming  at  that  late  hour 
boded  no  good  ;  and  good  or  ill,  the  Ma- 
jor resented  being  disturbed.  There 
were  times  for  business,  and  times  for 
pleasure.  Richard  had  put  Mr.  Jessup 
into  the'  Major's  study — the  room  with 
the  .pipes  and  pistols.  Many  an  un- 
pleasant interview  had  it  been  witness 
to  lately  :  Major  Dawkes  was  beginning 
to  shun  it. 

Only  one  of  the  gas-lights  was  burn- 
ing; and  Mr.  Jessup,  a  portly  man  with 
a  flaxen  wig,  stood  under  it.  Major 
Dawkes  had  just  told  his  servant  Rich- 
ard he  was  a  fool ;  Mr.  Jessup,  waiting 
for  his  audience,  was  thinking  that,  of 
all  fools  the  world  ever  saw,  his  client 
Barnaby  Dawkes  was  about  the  greatest. 


GEORGE    CANT  E  RBU  I!  Y " S    WILL 


195 


Standing  together,  the  conference  was 
carried  on  in  a  low  tone — almost  a  whis- 
per ;  dangerous  secrets  cannot  be  dis- 
cussed at  a  high  pitch.  A  certain  mat- 
ter— or  rather  a  suspicion  of  a  certain 
matter — had  got  to  Mr.  Jessup's  ears 
that  evening,  and  he  came  down  to  the 
Major. 

"  Is  it  so,  Major  ?  You  had  better 
tell  me." 

The  Major  would  a  great  deal  rather 
not  tell.  He  shuffled  and  equivocated, 
and  finally  subsided  into  silence.  Mr. 
Jess  up  did  not  make  a  pretence  of  lis- 
tening to  him  ;  he  knew  what  he  knew. 

"  No  earthly  thing  can  patch  up  this 
and  avert  exposure,  save  one,  Major  ; 
and  that  is,  money.  You  must  get  it. 
No  light  sura,  either." 

It  was  the  lawyer's  parting  mandate. 
Major  Dawkes,  left  alone,  took  a  rapid 
survey  of  his  situation,  feeling  some- 
thing like  a  man  desperate.  Money  he 
must  have;  it  was  as  true  as  heaven. 

A  sharp  glance  upwards,  as  the  door 
opened;  and  ji.i  angry  frown.  He  had 
thought  it  was  the  lawyer  coming  back 
again  ;  but  it  was  Mr.  Kage.  Richar^. 
had  said  where  his  master  might  be 
found. 

"  I  will  not  disturb  you  for  a  minute, 
Major  Dawkes.  I  bave  but  a  word  or 
two  to  say.  Are  you  giving  it  out  that 
I  am  going  to  advance  you  some  of 
Thomas  Canterbury's  money  ?  " 

"  No  ! " 

"  Two  or  three  applications  have  been 
made  to  me — from  your  creditors,  I  pre- 
sume— asking  whether  it  be  true  that  I 
am  about  to  accommodate  Major  Dawkes 
with  funds  from  the  estate  to  which  I 
stand  trustee.  I  could  only  think  you 
had  been  spreading  the  report." 

"  I  may  have  said  that  I  wished  you 
would  do  it,"  said  the  Major.  "  People 
jump  to  conclusions." 

"  I  wish  you  would  undeceive  them, 
then.  It  gives  them  trouble,  and  me 
too." 

"  What  was  your  answer,  pray  ?  " 

"That  they  were  under  a  misappre- 
hension altogether ;  that  I  had  neither 
the  power  nor  the  will  to  advance  any 
money  belonging  to  Thomas  Canter- 
bury." 

Major  Dawkes  bit  his  lip.  "  It 
would  so  oblige  me,  Kage — if  you  could 
be  induced  to  do  it.     The  money  would 


be  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of  England ;  I 
would  give  you  security,  and  repay  the 
whole  within  a  year." 

"  You  had  my  answer  before,  Major. 
I  told  }rou  then  that  I  must  decline  dis- 
cussion on  the  subject ;  pardon  me  if  I 
adhere  to  it.  Could  I  allow  even  that,  I 
should  be  scarcely  a  true  trustee.  Good- 
night." 

"  Good-night,"  was  the  Major's  an- 
swer. "  And  I  wish  you  were  dead,  I 
do  !  "  he  growled,  as  a  parting  blessing. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

AN    OLD    WARNING   RECALLED. 

Shrunken  and  wasted  nov*.  The 
fire  had  gone  out  forever  from  the  once 
fierce  gray  eyes  ;  the  strong  hands  were 
as  feeble  as  a  child's ;  but  the  will  was 
vigorous  yet,  and  the  body  strove  to  be. 
Mrs.  Garston,  with  her  all  but  ninety 
years,  was  better  than  are  some  at 
seventy. 

She  sat  by  the  fire  in  her  handsome 
chamber,  in  a  warm  dressing-gown  of 
quilted  gray  silk,  her  nightcap  on  her 
head.  Towards  evening  she  would  get 
up,  in  spite  of  Dr.  Tyndal — in  spite  of 
everybody.  Her  hands  lay  on  her  lap, 
her  head  was  bowed  forward — the  old 
stiff  uprightness  could  not  be  main- 
tained now. 

"  It's  time  I  was  gone,  Thomas.  The 
silver  cord 's  loosed,  and  the  golden 
bowl 's  broken.  A  few  more  weary  days 
and  nights,  and  you'll  put  me  in  the 
grave." 

In  his  sense  of  truth,  in  the  strong 
opinion  he  held  against  attempting  to 
deceive  the  dying  with  false  hopes, 
Thomas  Kage  did  not  attempt  to  refute 
her  words.  He  sat  near  her,  having 
called  in,  as  was  his  custom,  on  coming 
home  from  the  Temple. 

"  I  should  like  to  lie  by  your  mother. 
We  lived  side  by  side  in  life  ;  why  not 
repose  together  in  death?  Mind  about 
that,  Thomas — but  it's  in  the  directions 
I've  written.  She  was  young  enough 
to  be  my  daughter,  and  she  was  called 
away  years  before  me.  Only  a  little 
while  to  wait  now." 

The  fire  played  on  the  fresh  colors 
of  the  hearth-rug.     Mrs.  Garston  liked 


196 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL. 


bright  things  yet.  Its  flame  flickered 
on  the  face  that  would  never  more  be 
winsome. 

"  It  seems  a  dark  road  at  starting, 
Thomas — this  setting  out  for  the  jour- 
ney of  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death.  Once  the  gate  's  passed  through, 
it  will  be  light  eternal.  A  nianjr  have 
gone  tli rough  it  before  me ;  a  many 
have  got  to  come  after." 

Something  in  the  words  struck  oddly 
on  Thomas  Kage's  heart.  He  bent  for- 
ward, speaking  in  a  whisper. 

"  You  do  not  fear  the  passage  ?  " 

"  Me  !  Fear  it  ?  I  hope  not,  child. 
God  help  my  ingratitude  if  I  did !  — 
He'd  have  given  me  my  patriarch's 
years  in  vain.  I  am  setting  out  for  the 
golden  city,  Thomas  ;  and  I  don't  care 
how  soon  I'm  there." 

She  held  up  one  of  her  hands.  He 
drew  his  chair  nearer,  and  sat  clasp- 
ing it. 

<;  You've  been  like  a  son  to  me, 
Thomas.  You  were  better  than  a  son 
to  your  mother  ;  and,  mind,  God's  bless- 
ing will  go  with  you  alwaj-s.  I'm  sure 
of  that.  You  are  another  that  need  not 
fear  the  summons  to  the  Valley ;  no, 
not  though  it  came  to  you  to-night." 

Mr.  Kage  grew  slightly  uneasy.  She 
had  never  talked  in  this  way  before.  He 
thought  there  must  be  some  hidden  and 
perhaps  unconscious  cause  for  it — that 
the  summons  she  spoke  of  might  be  al- 
ready overshadowing  the  spirit. 

A  pause  ensued — rather  a  long  one  ; 
her  eyes  were  turned  to  the  fire  in 
thought.  When  she  began  to  speak 
again,  it  was  of  other  things. 

"  I'd  like  you  to  move  into  this  house, 
Thomas,  remember.  You-  can  let  your 
own." 

i(  This  house ;  it  would  be  too  large 
for  me." 

"  Not  it.  When  a  man  marries,  and 
gets  a  family  about  him,  he  wants 
plenty  of  room.  Don't  you  forget  that 
I  wish  you  to  come  to  it.  You'd  hardly 
bring  Millicent  Canterbury  home  to  the 
next  door  if  you  could  bring  her  here. 
She'd  go  with  you  to  a  hovel  ;  that's  my 
opinion  ;  but  she  may  like  elbow-room 
for  all  that,  when  there's  no  reason  why 
she  shouldn't  have  it." 

Not  a  word  said  Thomas  Kage  in  re- 
futation. That  Millicent  Canterbury 
would  be  his  wife  sometime — certainly 
his  wife  if  he  married  at  all  —  he  had 


grown  to  think  very  probable.  While 
his  prospects  were  unassured  he  would 
not  marry,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Garston's 
sharp  orders  to  do  so ;  but  he  was  get- 
ting on  well  now. 

"  You'll  walk  up  together  once  in  a 
way  on  a  summer's  evening,  you  and 
your  wife,  Thomas,  to  take  a  look  at  my 
grave.  So  will  Charlotte.  Mind  you 
keep  it  in  good  order ;  but  I  know  you 
will,  because  you  so  keep  your  mother's. 
—What's  the  news  ?  " 

The  transition  was  sudden.  Thomas 
Kage,  smiling  slightly,  said  he  knew  of 
none  in  particular. 

"  Heard  anything  about  Barnaby 
Dawkes  ?  " 

"  No.     Is  there  any  to  hear  ?  " 

"That's  what  I  asked  you"  said  Mrs. 
Garston,  with  a  touch  of  her  old  retort. 
"  I  fancied  there  might  be  ;  that's  all. 
Barby's  in  a  mess  again,  Thomas ;  a 
deep  one,  too." 

Mr.  Kage  thought  this  more  than 
probable  ;  indeed  he  as  good  as  knew  it. 
It  was  but  the  day  after  the  one  spoken 
of  in  the  last  chapter,  when  he  had  been 
at  the  reception  in  the  Major's  house. 

"  Keziah  called  this  afternoon.  They 
told  her  I  was  in  bed,  not  well  enough 
to  see  any  one,  and  asleep  too.  She  said 
she  must  see  me,  and  waited.  So  when 
my  tea  came  in,  she  came  with  it,  for  I 
had  but  then  awoke.  What  do  you 
think  she  wanted,  Thomas?" 

Money,  he  supposed,  but  did  not  say 
so.     He  slightly  shook  his  head. 

"  She  had  got  a  face,  Thomas  ;  but 
Keziah  always  had  wheri  it  was  to  serve 
Barby.  You'd  not  believe  it  unless  I 
told  you  with  my  own  tongue  —  she 
wanted  me  to  alter  my  will  in  Barby's 
favor !  Something's  up  with  him,  Thom- 
as: as  true  as  we  are  here,  something's 
up.  What  he  has  been  getting  into 
now.  she  wouldn't  say ;  I  asked  her : 
but  it's  something  bad.  She  prayed  for 
money  for  him  by  gift  or  by  will,  as  if 
she  were  praying  for  her  life  ;  and  her 
voice  and  hands  shook  like  leaves  in  the 
wind." 

"  I  conclude  he  must  be  in  debt 
again,"  observed  Thomas  Kage. 

"  Debt,  of  course,  and  pretty  deep. 
It's  not  a  little  thing  that  would  move 
Keziah.     I  did  feel  a  bit  sorry  for  her." 

"  Major  Dawkes  should  fight  his  own 
battles  ;  not  trouble  his  sister." 

"  Major  Dawkes  knows  he'd  not  dare 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


191 


to  put  his  foot  inside  my  door  with  any 
such  petition,"  sharply  returned  the  old 
lady.  "  I've  kept  him  at  my  stick's 
length,  I  can  tell  you,  since  that  matter 
of  little  Belle  Annesley.  She's  better 
off  in  heaven,  poor  child,  than  she'd 
have  been  with  him" 

She  sat  silent  a  minute,  thinking  per- 
haps of  the  past,  and  the  girl's  blighted 
life.,  Mr.  Kage  did  not  .interrupt.  He 
would  have  preferred  to  hear  no  more  of 
Major  Dawkes  and  Keziah's  petitions. 
Mrs.  Garston  began  to  nod  her  head. 

"  Yes,  she  had  a  face — to  comtf  asking 
for  money  for  Barb}'.     He  has  got  the 
fingering    of    an    income   half-a-dozen 
times    as    heavy  as    mine  ;    and    hasn't 
ma  le  it  do,  it  seems  !     '  What  did  I  say 
to  you,  Keziah  ?  '  I  asked  her — '  that  if 
Barby  had  one  hundred  thousand  a-year, 
he'd    want    two.'       And    so    he    would, 
Thomas.      '  He  is  in  great  need,  aunt 
Grarston,'    cried   Keziah — and  upon  my 
word,  her  lips  seemed  to  be  turning  blue 
as  she  said  it — '  he  may  have  to  fby  the 
country  if  he  does  not  get  it ! '     '  And 
the  sooner  he  flies  it,  the  better  for  them 
that  remain,  Keziah,'  I  answered  ;  '  if 
Barb}7  had  been  sent  out  of  it  3'Pars  ago 
at  the  Queen's  cost,  he'd  only  have  got 
what  he  deserved.'     And  so  he  would, 
Thomas.      '  Would  you  save   him  from 
such  a  fate  as  that  now,  aunt  Garston?' 
says  she  to  me.     '  No,  I  would  not,'   I 
told  her.      And  so  she  got  uiy  answer, 
and  went  away — it's  not  above  an  hour 
ago.     But,  Thomas,  you  take  my  word 
for  it — that  bad  man  is  in  for  it.  shoul- 
der deep.     To  help  him  would  be  a  great 
mistake,  next   door  to  a  sin  ;    he    goes 
through    the    world    scattering   ill    both 
sides  his  path  ;  and  if  he  gets  stopped, 
so  much  the  better." 

What  she  said  was  true  enough. 
Money  would  never  help  Barnaby 
Dawkes — never  do  him  any  real  good. 
The  more  he  got,  the  more  he  would 
need  to  get. 

Wishing  Mrs.  Garston  good-night, 
Thomas  Kage  proceeded  to  his  home, 
hungry  enough  ;  for  he  had  not  yet 
dined,  and  it  was  later  than  usual.  He 
had  for  some  time  thought  that  the 
starving  in  his  house  (as  Mrs.  Garston 
in  a  sense  compelled  him  to  do)  was  all 
for  the  best;  he  was  making  an  ample 
living  now,  and  his  name  stood  high  in 
his  calling  before  the  world. 


Opening  the  house-door  with  a  latch- 
key, he  was  about  to  enter  the  dining- 
room,  when  a  maid-servant  ran  up. 

"  A  lady  is  there  waiting  for  you,  sir. 
She  says  she  wants  to  see  you  on  par- 
ticular business." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  I  don't  know,  sir.  She  has  been 
here  above  an  hour..  We  showed  her 
in  there,  as  there  was  no  fire  in  the 
drawing-room  :  and  so  the  cloth  's  not 
laid." 

When  a  man,  starving  for  his  dinner, 
is  told  the  cloth 's  not  laid,  it  is  by 
no  means  agreeable  news.  Thomas 
Kage  made  the  best  of  it,  as  he  was 
wont  to  do  of  most  other  ills  in  life. 
But  he  did  wonder  what  lady  could  be 
wanting  him.  Seated  before  the  fire, 
her  back  to  the  door,  he  saw  some  one 
in  a  gray-plaid  shawl.  She  got  up  as  he 
entered,  and  turned  her  head.  Keziah 
Dawkes  ! 

Gray  though  her  shawl  might  be,  it 
did  not  equal  the  gray  hardness  of  her 
face :  but  that  had  grown  habitual. 
Mr.  Kage  closed  the  door,  and  sat  down 
near  her,  the  recent  remark  of  Mrs. 
Garston's  passing  through  his  mind — - 
that  Keziah's  voice  and  hands  trembled 
and  her  lips  turned  blue  when  pleading 
for  Barby.  Her  voice  was  not  trem- 
bling now,  as  she  apologized  for  taking 
his  house  by  storm  to  wait  for  him. 
He  said  a  few  courteous  words,  and  then 
left  her  to  tell  her  business. 

"  I  have  come  to  request  a  great  fa- 
vor of  you,"  she  began.  "  I  know  how 
vast  is  the  liberty  I  am  taking  in  med- 
dling with  what  you  may  deem  cannot 
concern  me  ;  but  interests  are  at  stake 
which — which — " 

Keziah  broke  down.  Not  from  emo- 
tion :  she  was  not  one  likely  to  be  super- 
fluously agitated,  even  for  Barby;  but 
because  she  doubted  what  she  could  say 
to  justify  her  plea,  and  yet  not  say  too 
much.  It  had  to  be  done ;  those  calm, 
honest,  steady  eyes  were  patiently  fixed 
on  her.  She  went  on  a  little  more 
quickly. 

"  You  are  the  sole  trustee  to  Mrs. 
Dawkes's  little  son,  I  believe,  Mr. 
Kage." 

"  The  trustee  to  his  property  ?    Yes." 
"  It  is  accumulating  largely,  they  say." 
"  Of  course.     With  so  large  a  fortune 
it  could  not  be  otherwise." 


198 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


"  I  want  you  to  lend  a  very,  very 
infinitesimal  portion  of  those  savings  to 
the  child's  stepfather,"  continued  Ke- 
ziah. 

"  To  Major  Dawkes  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  I  am  truly  sorry  you  should  have 
come  here  to  prefer  any  such  request  to 
me,  Miss  Dawkes.  It  is  not  in  my  power 
to  grant  it/' 

"  In  your  power  it  is,  Mr.  Kage  ;  in 
your  will  it  may  not  be." 

"  Indeed  you  are  in  error.  It  is  not 
in  my  power  to  touch  a  fraction  of 
Thomas  Canterbury's  money,  to  lend  to 
Major  Dawkes  or  to  any  other  person. 
If  I  did  so,  I  should  be  false  to  my 
trust." 

"  Not  false  really  ;  only  in  your  own 
estimation." 

"  False  really  ;  I  think  you  must  see 
that,  Miss  Dawkes.  But,  put  it  as  you 
suggest,  I  like  to  stand  well  with  my 
conscience,"  he  added,  smiling,  wishing 
to  pass  the  matter  off  as  lightly  as  he 
could. 

"  I  have  come  to  beg,  pray,  entreat  of 
you  to  do  this,"  rejoined  Keziah  with 
deep  earnestness,  as  if  the  smile  offend- 
ed her.  '•  I  have  come  to  wrestle  with 
you  for  it,  Mr.  Kage,  if  need  be." 

She  half  rose  from  her  chair  as  she 
spoke.  Mr.  Kage  got  up  and  put  his 
elbow  on  the  mantlepiece.  He  foresaw 
the  interview  might  possibly  turn  out 
more  painful  than  pleasant. 

"  To  wrestle  with  you,  as  Jacob  wres- 
tled with  the  angel  on  the  plains  of 
Peniel,"  she  continued,  her  voice  falling, 
her  cold  gray  eyes  searching  his.  "  To 
say  to  you  as  he  said,  I  will  not  let  you 
go  unless  you  bless  me." 

"  Were  it  a  thing  I  could  do,  Miss 
Dawkes,  I  should  not  need  this  persua- 
sion. Being  what  it  is,  no  entreaty  or 
persuasion  can  move  me." 

The   voice    was    all    too  quietly  firm. 
Keziah's  heart  began  to  fail  within  her. 
"  I  never  thought  you  a  hard  man." 
"  I  do  not  think  I  am  one.     This  is 
not  a  question  of  hardness,  but  of  right 
and  wrong." 

"  To  grant  the  request  would  cost  you 
,    nothing." 

"  The  cost  to  me  we  will  put  out  of 
sight,  please,  Miss  Dawkes,  as  a  super- 
fluous consideration.  The  request  is — 
pardon  me — one  that  you  have  no  right 


to  make,  or  I  to  suffer.  See  you  not," 
he  added,  bending  his  head  a  little  in  the 
force  of  argument,  "  that  if  I  were  ca- 
pable of  lending  (say)  one  hundred 
pounds  of  this  money  lying  in  my  charge, 
I  might,  in  point  of  principle,  as  well 
lend  the  whole  ?  If  I  could  bring  my- 
self to  touch  any  of  it,  what  is  there  to 
prevent  my  taking  it  all  ?" 

Of  course  Keziah  saw  it ;  she  was  a 
strong-minded  woman  of  sense  and  dis- 
cernment. But  Barby's  position  made 
her  feel  desperate,  obscuring  right  and 
wrong. 

"  The  position  I  stand  in,  as  sole  trus- 
tee to  so  large  a  property,  is  a  very 
onerous  one,"  he  pursued.  "When  I 
found  I  was  appointed  to  it  by  Mr.  Can- 
terbury's will,  the  responsibility  that 
would  lie  on  me  struck  me  at  once,  and 
I  hesitated,  for  that  and  other  reasons, 
whether  to  accept  it.  Eventually  I  did 
so  ;  but  I  was  quite  sure  of  myself,  Miss 
Dawkes.  Had  I  not  been,  the  world 
would  never  have  found  me  acting." 

Keziah  sat  forward  in  the  chair,  her 
head  resting  on  her  hand.  Mr.  Kage, 
still  standing,  faced  her.  He  seemed 
firmer  than  that  celebrated  mansion 
pertaining  to  the  boy's  property — the 
Rock. 

"  It  is  so  trifling  a  sum  that  I  ask 
you  the  loan  of!  Only  three  or  four 
thousand  pounds." 

"  The  amount,  more  or  less — as  you 
must  perceive — has  nothing  to  do  with 
it." 

"  Do  you  think  that  Major  Dawkes 
would  not  pay  you  back  ?  " 

"  I  think  Major  Dawkes  neither  would 
nor  could,"  fearlessly  replied  Mr.  Kage. 
"  But — pardon  me  for  repeating  it — the 
question  does  not  lie  there." 

"  Can  you  suppose  that  you  are  ful- 
filling your  duty  to  the  child,  when  you 
thus  refuse  this  poor  little  meed  of  aid 
to  one  who  stands  to  him  as  a  father?'' 
flashed  Keziah,  temper  getting  for  a  mo- 
ment into  the  ascendant. 

"  My  duty  to  the  child,  my  duty  to 
his  dead  father,  lies  in  refusing  it,"  said 
Mr.  Kage  quietly.  "  But  that  Mr.  Can- 
terbury felt  perfectly  secure  in  my  faith- 
fulness, he  surely  would  not  have  placed 
in  my  sole  hands  this  great  amount  of 
power." 

Argument.seemed  useless,  and  Keziah 
si»hed  heavily.     Her  face  besan  to  take 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


199 


a  hopeless  look,  and  Thomas  Kage  felt 
for  her.  But  he  would  have  given  up 
his  life  rather  than  his  probity. 

"When  Major  Dawkes  applied  to  me 
upon  this  subject — which  fact,  I  pre- 
sume, is  known  to  you,  by  your  coming 
yourself — I  stopped  him  at  the  onset, 
Miss  Dawkes.  I  told  him  that  the 
matter  was  one  that  did  not  admit  of 
argument ;  neither  would  I  permit  any." 

Keziah  did  not  take  the  hint.  Tena- 
cious by  nature  in  all  that  concerned 
Barnaby,  she  was  persistently  so  now. 

"  Put  yourself  in  my  brother's  place, 
Mr.  Kage,"  she  pleadingly  said,  her  tone 
taking  a  degree  of  softness.  "  If  you 
had  some  desperately  pressing  need  of 
temporary  help,  how  would  you  feel  if 
it  were  denied  you — as  you  are  denying 
me  ?  " 

"  I  must  really  beg  of  you  not  to 
pursue  this  farther,"  was  his  rejoinder. 
"  It  gives  you  pain,  and  is  utterly  use- 
less." 

"Did  you  understand  my  hint?  "  she 
asked,  dropping  her  voice.  "  He  is  in 
desperate  need  of  it ;  desperate  !  Noth- 
ing else  would  justify  my  persistency 
after  your  refusal.  It  is  not  common 
debt." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  Mr. 
Ka<^e.  "  I  suspected  something  of  the 
kind."' 

"  Will  you  not  lend  it  him  ?  " 

"  No.  I  regret  you  should  make  me 
repeat  \x\y  refusal  so  often.  There  is  no 
alternative." 

Keziah  began  to  understand  that 
there  would  be  none.  She  lifted  her  face 
to  his. 

"  Could  }Tou  lend  him  any  of  your  own 
money,  then  ?  I  would  be  responsible 
as  well  as  he  for  its  return." 

Mr.  Kage  smiled. 

"  You  would  find  me  much  less  hard 
in  regard  to  my  own,  if  I  had  any  to  lend. 
A  struggling  barrister  does  not  put  by 
mone}-.'' 

"  For  '  struggling '  say  '  rising.'  You 
are  that  now." 

"  But  I  have  not  been  so  long  enough 
to  grow  rich,"  he  rejoined  ;  involuntarily 
thinking  that,  if  he  Were  rich,  Major 
Dawkes  would  be  the  last  person  to 
whom  he  would  lend  money. 

"  Do  you  know  any  one  who  would  ? 
any  client,  for  example  ?  Barnaby 
would  pay  high  interest." 

"  I  do  not,  indeed.      A  solicitor  would 


be  the  proper  person  to  apply  to — or  a 
money-lender." 

Keziah's  private  belief  was,  that  Bar- 
naby had  exhausted  those  accommodat- 
ing gentlemen.  She  sat  on,  never  at- 
tempting to  move,  and  at  last  began  to 
say  a  good  word  for  Barnaby. 

"  There  is  every  excuse  to  be  made  fur 
my  brother  ;  you  must  acknovvdedge  that, 
Mr.  Kage." 

"  Excuse  for  what  ?  " 

"  For  running  into  debt.  He  has  been 
placed  in  the  midst  of  temptation.  Mar- 
ried to  a  woman  who  has  so  large  an  in- 
come, what  else  could  be  expected  of  a 
man  ?  " 

Thomas  Kage  stared  a  little. 

"  I  should  have  considered  it  just  the 
position  that  a  man  might  find  safety  in, 
Miss  Dawkes.  Every  luxury  of  life  is 
provided  for,  without  a  cost  to  himself." 

"  You  forget  his  personal  expenses — 
gloves  and  that." 

"  Not  at  all.  He  reckons,  I  believe,  to 
draw  two  thousand  a-yearfrom  his  wife's 
income  for  them.  And  there's  his  pay 
besides.'' 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  "  asked  Keziah, 
quite  sharply. 

"Mrs.  Dawkes.  I  had  occasion  to 
consult  her  on  a  matter  connected  with 
the  estate,  and  she  incidentally  men- 
tioned that  Major  Dawkes  drew  two 
thousand  a-year  for  his  private  pocket." 

Keziah  bit  her  lip. 

"  Well,  what's  two  thousand  a-year  to 
a  man  of  my  brother's  habits  ?  He  has 
to  do  as  others  do." 

"  I  question  if  Major  Dawkes  confines 
himself  to  the  two  thousand,"  rejoined 
Mr.  Kage.  "  Mrs.  Canterbury  married 
him  without  being  secured,  and  her  mon- 
ey lies  at  the  bank  in  his  name.  As  we 
are  upon  the  point,  Miss  Dawkes,  it  is  as 
well  to  be  correct." 

"  You  wish  to  make  out  that  he  draws 
just  what  he  pleases  of  it !  "  she  said 
resentfully. 

"  I  wish  to  make  out  nothing.  I  have 
not  the  smallest  doubt  but  that  he  does 
do  it." 

Keziah  stood  at  bay.  She  had  risen 
to  leave  ;  was  she  to  go  in  her  despair, 
resigning  every  hope  ?  Once  more  a 
piteous  appeal  for  help  went  out  to  Mr. 
Kage.  And  yet  she  knew  it  would  be 
useless  as  she  spoke  it.  At  length  she 
turned  to  go,  Mr.  Kage  attending  her. 

"  The  mystery  to  me  is,  how  he  can  get 


200 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


rid  of  so  much  money,"  he  remarked  on 
impulse,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  lock 
of  th.e  door. 

"  He  gambles,"  whispered  Keziah, 
forgetting  Barnaby's  interests  for  once  in 
her  bitter  abandonment. 

"  Gambles.     Ay,  there  it  is." 

But  Thomas  Kage  had  no  doubt 
known  as  much  before.  He  closed  the 
street-door  on  his  guest,  and  Keziah  went 
into  the  bleak  night,  wondering  what 
now  could  be  done  for  her  brother. 

Thomas  Kage  returned  to  his  room, 
and  while  standing  over  the  fire  until 
they  should  bring  his  dinner,  recalled  a 
certain  warning  in  regard  to  the  boy's 
money  that  Mrs.  Gars  ton  had  given  him 
years  before.  He  had  thought  it  super- 
fluous then. 

"  Take  }rou  care  of  it,  or  Barby  will  be 
too  many  for  you.  He'd  wring  the  heart 
out  of  a  live  man  if  it  were  made  of 
gold." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

VERY    UNSATISFACTORY. 

Something  like  a  week  went  by,  and 
then  Mrs.  Garston's  house  was  closed. 
The  hale  old  lady  had  gone  to  her  rest. 

Down  came  Mr.  Jessup,  her  solicitor  : 
the  same  man  of  law  who  acted  (but  not 
al\va37s)  for  Barnaby  Dawkes.  Major 
Dawkes  was  sometimes  involved  in  odds 
and  ends  of  affairs  that  he  would  not  have 
taken  to  him,  a  respectable  practitioner. 
Before  her  death,  Mrs.  Garstoh  had  said 
to  those  about  her,  "  When  anything 
happens  to  me,  send  for  Jessup,  and  let 
him  look  in  my  desk  for  instructions." 

Keziah  Dawkes  was  with  her  when  she 
died.  Whether  in  any  hope  that  a  second 
appeal  might  be  of  use  to  Barnaby, 
whether  in  solicitude  for  the  old  lady's 
precarious  state,  Keziah  presented  her- 
self at  the  house  one  morning,  and  found 
.her  aunt  dying — all  but  gone.  Keziah 
was  very  angry  that  she  had  not  been 
summoned  ;  but  Mrs.  Garston's  maid— 
who  had  grown  old  in  her  service — said 
her  mistress  had  forbidden  her  to  send  to 
either  her  or  the  Major.  Mr.  Kage  had 
taken  his  leave  of  her  the  previous  night ; 
when  he  called  in  that  morning,  she  was 
already  insensible.  Keziah  listened,  and 
could  but  resign  herself  to  fate. 


In  less  than  an  hour  all  was  over. 
Keziah,  taking  off  her  bonnet,  remained. 
She  felt  to  be  more  mistress  in  the  house 
than  she  had  ever  been  before  ;  she  went 
peering  about  surreptitiously  in  various 
places,  thinking  she  would  give  the  whole 
world  to  know  how  things  were  left.  A 
faint  foolish  hope  had  been  growing  up  in 
her  heart — that  perhaps,  after  all,  her 
aunt  had  relented  in  favor  of  Barby. 

Mr.  Jessup  searched  for  the  paper  of 
instructions.  ThejT  were  found  to  have 
reference  chiefly  to  her  funeral.  Keziah 
looked  over  bis  shoulder.  Mrs.  Garston 
directed  that  she  should  be  buried  by 
the  side  of  Lady  Kage,  and  that  Thomas 
Kage  should  follow  her  as  chief  mourner. 

He  the  chief  mourner  ! — a  pang  of 
dread  shot  through  Keziah's  heart. 
Could  this  be  an  intimation  that  she  had 
made  that  man  her  heir  ?  Barby  had 
said  it  would  be  so. 

And  yet,  one  slight  circumstance  gave 
Keziah  some  little  courage  :  she  gathered 
from  the  servants  that  Mr.  Jessup  had 
been  summoned  to  a  conference  on  the 
Friday  in  the  past  week.  Counting  back 
the  days,  Keziah  found  this  must  have 
been  the  one  following  that  pleading  visit 
of  hers  for  Barby.  A  burning  hope 
sprang  up  again  within  her  ;  yes,  Mrs. 
Garston  might  have  relented. 

"  Can  jtou  tell  me  whether  my  aunt  has 
altered  her  will  lately  ?  "  inquired  Ke- 
ziah of  Mr.  Jessup,  who  was  putting  a 
seal  on  an  Indian  cabinet,  where  Mrs. 
Garston's  principal  papers  were  kept. 

The  lawyer  turned  and  looked  at  the 
speaker,  as  if  questioning  her  right  to 
ask. 

"  You  think  the  inquiry  an  indiscreet 
one,  I  see,  Mr.  Jessup.  In  truth,  it  is 
almost  needless,  considering  that  the  will 
must  be  so  soon  made  public.  But  as 
Mrs.  Garston  sent  for  you  last  week,  I 
thought,  perhaps,  she  might  have  wanted 
some  alteration  made  in  her  will.  The 
summons  was  a  peremptory  one,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"  That's  just  what  she  did  want,  Miss 
Dawkes." 

"  Did  it  concern  my  brother  ?  "  quick- 
ly cried  Keziah,  holding  her  breath. 

"  I  cannot  say  but  what  it  did,"  was 
the  lawyer's  answer.  "  That  is  all  I  can 
tell  you  now,  Miss  Dawkes,"  he  added, 
interrupting  her  as  she  was  about  to 
speak.     "  For   particulars  on    that   and 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


201 


other  points  you  must  be  content  to  wait 
for  the  will  itself." 

Well,  Keziah  could  do  that;  there 
were  some  grains  of  hope  to  live  upon. 
Very  anxiously  did  she  search  the  law- 
yer's countenance,  if  by  good  luck  she 
might  gather  from  it  courage  or  disap- 
pointment ;  but  it  gave  out  neither.  A 
wax  face  in  a  barber's  shop  could  not  be 
more  expressionless  than  his. 

Tying  on  her  bonnet  with  eager  fin- 
gers, pulling  her  gray-plaid  shawl  around 
her,  she  made  her  way  to  the  street-door, 
and  met  Thomas  Kage  in  the  garden. 
A  few  words  passed  between  them  con- 
cerning the  old  friend  gone,  and  then  Ke- 
ziah put  a  home  question. 

"  Do  j'ou    know  how  things  are  left 
Mr.  Kage  ?  " 
"  No." 

"  Jessup  is  in  there  sealing  up  the 
places,"  continued  Keziah,  looking  hard 
at  Thomas  Kage,  almost  as  though  she 
doubted  his  denial.  "  I  find  that  my 
aunt  altered  her  will  last  week,  and  that 
the  alteration  concerned  Barnaby." 
"  Indeed  !  "  was  all  he  answered. 
"  Of  course,  after  our  recent  interview, 
you  cannot  but  know  that  this  is  of  the 
very  utmost  moment  to  me,  Mr.  Kage, 
for  my  brother's  sake,"  she  resumed. 
"  To  him  it  is  almost  a  matter  of  life  or 
death.  If  you  do  know  how  Aunt  Gars- 
ton's  will  is  left,  it  cannot  hurt  you  to 
tell  me." 

"  But  I  do  not,"  he  replied.  "  I  as- 
sure you,  Miss  Dawkes,  that  I  know 
nothing  whatever  about  the  will — abso- 
lutely nothing.  She  never  told  me  how 
h?r  affairs  were  settled  ;  never  has  given 
me  so  much  as  a  hint  of  it." 

Keziah  saw  that  he  was  speaking 
truth,  and  continued  her  way,  leaving 
him  to  enter.  Barnaby  Dawkes's  com- 
munication to  her  that  night  at  her  house 
— the  few  whispered  words  as  he  was 
leaving — had  nearly  scared  her  senses 
away.  Unless  help  came  to  him — Ke- 
ziah shivered  as  she  strove  to  put  away 
the  thought  of  what  might  follow  after. 
Her  great  anxiety  to  ascertain  whether 
he  was  left  well  off  was  this,  that  Bar- 
naby might  be  able  to  quiet  unpleasant 
creditors  at  once  with  the  news. 

'•  Barb}',  she's  gone  !  "  exclaimed  Ke- 
ziah, bursting  in  upon  him  as  he  sat  in 
his  study  looking  over  some  letters,  a 
cigar  in  his  mouth. 


"  Who's  gone  ?  "  returned  the  Major, 
thinking  of  any  one  at  the  moment  rath- 
er than  Mrs.  Gars  ton. 

"  The  poor  old  deaf  creature.  She 
died  about  an  hour  ago." 

Major  Dawkes  got  up  and  stood  with 
his  back  to  the  fire,  into  which  he  threw 
the  cigar.  Keziah  thought  he  looked 
startled. 

"  Dead,  is  she  ?    Rather  sudden  !  " 

"No,  they  say  not.  It's  a  shame  I 
was  not  sent  for." 

"  You  see  now  there  was  not  so  much 
time  to  lose,"  remarked  the  Major.  "  You 
might  as  well  have  done  as  I  asked 
you,  Keziah." 

"  I  did  do  it,  Barby  dear.  I  went 
to  her  the  day  afterwards.  She'd  not 
give  me  the  slightest  hope  ;  was  just  as 
rudely  abusive  of  you  as  ever.  So  then 
I  weut  to  Mr.  Kage." 

The  Major  lifted  his  eyes.  "What 
for  ?  " 

"  To  get  him  to  lend  you  a  small 
mite  of  the  trust  money ;  or  rather  to 
try  to  get  him.  It  was  of  no  use ;  he 
was  as  hard  as  adamant." 

"I  could  have  told  you  it  would  be 
no  use  going  to  him,"  was  the  rough 
answer;  and  I'm  sorry  you  went." 

"  Well,  I  did  it  for  the  best,"  she 
said,  thinking  how  thankless  he  was — 
readj'  to  swear  at  her  rather  than  be 
grateful. 

Major  Dawkes  gave  the  fire  a  stamp 
with  his  heel. 

"  Old  Jessup  is  at  the  place  sealing 
up  the  things,"  continued  Keziah.  "  He 
had  to  come  and  open  the  instructions 
for  the  funeral.  Thomas  Kage  is  to  be 
the  chief  mourner.     If " 

"And  the  chief  heir  too,  I  expect," 
explosively  interrupted  the  Major.  "A 
sly,  sneaking,  greedy  hound!" 

"  He's  not  that,  Barby.  If  she  has 
left  him  her  heir,  depend  upon  it,  it  is 
without  any  connivance  of  his.  But  I 
think  there's  a  chance  for  you." 

"  It's  to  be  hoped  there,  is." 

She  told  him  what  she  had  learnt, 
about  the  lawyer's  being  summoned  to 
make  some  alteration  in  the  will,  and  his 
acknowledgment  that  it  concerned  Major 
Dawkes.  The  Major  shouted  at  the 
news.  He  looked  upon  it  as  a  certainty 
in  that  sanguine  moment,  and  his  spirits 
went  up  to  fever  heat. 


202 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


The  funeral  was  over.  The  fine  spring 
day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  as  the  car- 
riages came  back  again.  Thomas  Kage, 
according  to  appointment,  was  the  chief 
mourner;  just  as  he  had  been  many 
years  before  at  another  grave  lying  close 
beside. 

The  mourners  assembled  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. Keziah  Dawkes,  the  only 
lady  present,  looking  very  grim  in  her 
black  robes  ;  Mr.  Kage  ;  Richard  Dunn  ; 
Major  Dawkes;  Charlotte  Lowther's 
husband  ;  Mr.  Lynn-Garston,  a  wealthy 
country  squire,  whose  brother,  Harry 
Lynn-Garston,  was  to  have  married  Olive 
Canterbury  ;  and  the  lawyer.  The  will, 
exciting  so  much  hope  and  fear  in  Ke- 
ziah's  breast,  was  at  last  about  to  be  made 
public. 

Mr.  Jessup  unfolded  it  before  them. 
Within  it  was  a  sealed  paper,  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  deceased's  directions,  was 
to  be  read  before  the  will.  It  was  writ- 
ten in  Mrs.  Garston's  own  stiff  hand. 
Mr.  Jessup  explained  that  Mrs.  Garston 
had  handed  him  this  paper  sealed  up, 
giving  him  no  intimation  of  what  the 
contents  might  be — only  directions  to 
put  it  in  with  her  will,  and  read  it  first. 
The  lawyer  looked  at  it  with  evident  in- 
terest. His  audience  listened  eagerly. 
It  turned  out  to  be  a  kind  of  will,  or 
script  of  her  will,  interspersed  with  vari- 
ous remarks,  and  curiously  worded. 

"  Whereas  "  (it  began,  after  a  few  in- 
troductory sentences)  "  Thomas  Kage 
refuses  obstinately  to  be  my  heir,  as  I 
wished  and  intended  to  make  him,  I  dis- 
pose of  my  property  amidst  others,  and 
I  do  it  unwillingly. 

"  To  Richard  Dunn  five  thousand 
pounds.  He  is  an  honest  man,  ami  has 
been  my  good  friend. 

"  To  Charlotte  Lowther,  the  step- 
daughter of  ray  late  dear  friend  Lady 
Kage,  five  thousand  pounds. 

"  To  Dr.  Tyndal  five  hundred  pounds. 

"  To  Mr.  Jessup,  my  lawyer,  five  hun- 
dred pounds. 

"  Legacies  to  all  my  servants — as  my 
will  specifies.     They  have  been  faithful. 

"  To  Olive  Canterbury  my  case  of 
diamonds,  in  remembrance  of  Harry 
Lynn-Garston.  There  are  few  young 
women  I  respect  as  I  do  Olive  Canter- 
bury. 


"  To  Millicent  Canterbury  my  set  of 
pearls,  and  the  emerald  ring  I  am  in  the 
habit  of  wearing  on  my  little  finger. 

"  To  Lydia  Dunn  a  plain  Bible  and 
Prayer-book  which  my  executors  will 
purchase  —  hoping  she  will  read  and 
profit  by  them. 

"  To  Keziah  Dawkes  an  annuity  of 
one  hundred  pounds  for  her  life.  Also  a 
present  sum  in  ready-money  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  ;  to  be  paid  to 
her  within  twenty -one  days  of  my  death, 
free  of  legacy  duty.  Also  my  set  of 
corals  and  the  two  rings  lying  in  the 
same  case.  Also  four  of  my  best  gowns 
(she  is  to  choose  them)  and  the  black 
velvet  mantle,  and  the  lace  that  is  con- 
tained in  the  top  drawer  of  the  ebony 
miniature  set  of  drawers  in  the  blue  bed- 
room. Keziah  Dawkes  would  have  got 
three  hundred  a-year  instead  of  one,  but 
for  the  way  in  which  she  has  joined 
Barby  to  deceive  me  through  a  course  of 
years. 

"To  Thomas  Charles  Carr  Kage  I 
leave  these  two  houses — this  and  the 
one  he  lives  in.  He  has  been  as  a  son 
to  me  these  many  years,  and  I  thought 
to  make  him  heir  to  the  greater  por- 
tion of  my  money.  He  refuses  abso- 
lutely—  having  had  enough  of  unjust 
wills,  he  says,  in  old  Canterbuiw's — but 
I  know  that  he  would  have  used  the 
money  well.  If  he  refuses  these  houses, 
I  direct  that  they  should  be  razed  to 
the  ground.  It  is  my  earnest  desire 
that  he  should  not  refuse  ;  and  I  can- 
not think  he  will  so  far  disregard  my  last 
wishes  as  to  do  so. 

"  To  various  charities,  as  specified  in 
my  will,  I  leave  five  thousand  pouuds. 

"  Barnab}7  Dawkes.  I  declare  in  this 
my  last  testament,  that  it  never  was  in 
my  thoughts  to  make  Barb}'  Dawkes  my 
heir.  Had  he  shown  himself  worthy  of 
it,  I  would  have  left  him  amply  well 
off;  but  my  heir  he  never  would  have 
been.  As  he  is  unworthy,  he  will  not 
find  himself  much  the  better  for  me. 
I  bequeath  to  him  an  annuity  of  two 
hundred  and  eight  pounds  ;  and  I  fur- 
ther bequeath  to  him  a  present  sum  of 
five  hundred  pounds,  free  of  duty,  to  be 
paid  to  him  within  twenty-one  days  of 
my  death. 

"  The  rest  of  nay  property,  I  leave  to 
Arthur  Lynn-Garston,  and  make  him 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


203 


my  residuary  legatee.  And  I  appoint 
Richard  Dunn  and  himself  my  execu- 
tors. 

"  Margaret  Garston." 

Arthur  Lynn -Garston  looked  up  in 
mute  astonishment.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected to  be  remembered  at  all :  certain- 
ly not  to  this  large  amount.  But  this 
was  not  the  true  will.  Very  rapidly 
the  lawyer  was  proceeding  to  read  that, 
as  if  desirous  not  to  give  time  for  com- 
ment. 

It  proved,  so  far  as  the  bequests  went, 
a  counterpart  of  the  paper.  And  Bar- 
naby  Dawkes's  legacy  of  two  hundred 
and  eight  pounds  a-year  was  to  be  paid 
to  him  by  weekly  instalments. 

"  That's  all,"  said  the  lawyer,  folding 
it  up. 

Keziah's  pale  lips  were  trembling. 
She  approached  him  with  an  angry  tone. 

"  You  told  me  Mrs.  Garston  mafle 
some  alteration  in  my  brother's  favor 
only  a  week  before  she  died.  Where  is 
it?" 

"  I  did  not  say  whether  it  was  in  his 
favor  or  against  him,  Miss  Dawkes  : 
only  that  it  concerned  him,"  replied  Mr. 
Jessup  in  a  low  tone.  "  The  alteration 
Mrs.  Garston  desired  me  to  make  was 
this — that  Major  Dawkes's  annuity  of 
two  hundred  pounds  should  be  increased 
to  two  hundred  and  eight ;  and  be  paid 
to  him  weekly.  She  remarked  that  Mrs. 
Dawkes  would  not  live  for  ever,  and  he 
might  come  to  want  bread-and-cheese." 

What  could  K-eziah  answer  ?  Noth- 
ing. But  her  face  took  an  ashy  turn 
in  the  shaded  room's  twilight. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

.      MRS.    DAWKES    AT    HOME. 

Th1'.  clocks  were  chiming  the  quarter 
before  midnight,  as  a  gentleman  splash- 
ed through  the  mud  and  wet  of  the 
London  streets,  on  his  way  to  a  private 
West-end  gambling-house.  It  was  the 
bai-rister,  Thomas  Kage.  He  was  not 
given  to  frequent  such  places  on  his  own 
account,  but  he  was  in  urgent  search  of 
one  who  was — a  man  he  had  once  call- 
ed friend,  and  who  had  brought  himself 
into  danger.     Not  a  cab  was  to  be  had, 


and  his  umbrella  was  useless;  glad 
enough  was  he  to  turn  into  the  dark 
passage  that  led  to  the  house's  entrance, 
and  shake  the  wet  from  his  clothes. 
Dark,  cold,  and  gloomy  as  it  was  here, 
inside  would  no  doubt  be  all  light  and 
warmth,  and  he  was  about  to  give  the 
signal  which  would  admit  him,  when 
the  door  was  cautiously  opened  and  two 
gentlemen  came  forth. 

One  of  them — he  was  in  her  Majesty's 
regimentals  —  wore  a  scowling  aspect. 
It  was  Major  Dawkes ;  earlier  in  the 
evening  he  had  been  to  an  official  din- 
ner, which  accounted  for  his  dress. 
More  and  more  addicted  had  he  become 
to  that  bad  vice,  gambling  ;  the  worst 
vice,  save  one,  that  man  can  take  to 
himself;  and  this  night  he  had  lost  fear- 
full}7.  To  lose  money  now  was,  in  the 
Major's  case,  simply  madness ;  but  the 
fatal  spell  was  upon  him,  and  he  eould 
not  shake  it  off.  Not  caring  to  be  seen, 
Mr.  Kage  drew  into  a  dark  corner.  At 
the  same  moment  from  the  opposite 
corner  stepped  some  one  who  must  have 
been  waiting  there. 

"  Major,"  said  this  latter  gentleman, 
"  I  must  speak  to  you." 

"  What  the — mischief —  brings  you 
here  ?  "  demanded  Major  Dawkes  with 
a  hard  word. 

"  I  have  waited  for  you  two  mortal 
hours.  I.  was  just  in  time  to  see  you 
enter ;  and  got  threatened  by  the  door- 
keepers for  insisting  upon  going  in  after 
you.  I  had  not  the  password.  Can  I 
speak  a  word  with  you,  Major  ?  " 

"  No,  you  can't,"  was  the  defiant  an- 
swer of  the  Major.  But  that  he  had 
taken  rather  more  wine  than  was  good 
for  him,  he  might  have  been  civil  fur 
prudence'  sake.  "I'll  hear  nothing. 
Go  and  talk  to  Jessup." 

"  Major  Dawkes,  this  will  not  do. 
You  know  perfectly  well  that  Jessup 
won't  have  anything  to  do  with  the  af- 
fair; 'twould  soil  his  hands,  he  says." 

"  You  know  where  I  live,"  stamped 
the  Major.  "Come  there,  if  you  want 
to  see  me.  Pretty  behavior  this  is,  to 
wayla\r  an  officer  and  a  gentleman." 

"  Excuse  me,  Major,  but  if  }Tou  play  at 
hide-and-seek — " 

"  Hide-and-seek  !  "  interrupted  Major 
Dawkes.     "  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  " 

"  It  looks  like  it,"  returned  the  other 
with  a  significant    cough.      '•'  You    caD 


204 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


never  be  seen  at  your  house,  and  you 
will  not  answer  our  letters.  It  has  not 
been  for  pleasure  that  I  have  waited 
here,  like  a  lackey,  this  miserable  nig  it  ; 
we  might  have  sent  a  clerk,  but  I  came 
myself,  out  of  regard  to  your  feelings. 
If  I  cannot  speak  with  you,  I  will  give 
you  into  custody ;  and  you  know  the 
consequences  of  that." 

Though  not  quite  himself,  the  Major 
did  know  the  consequences.  Drawing 
aside  into  the  dark  corner  that  the  law- 
yer— as  he  evidently  was — had  come  out 
of,  a  few  whispered  words  passed  be- 
tween them. 

"  To-morrow,  then,  at  twelve,  at  our 
office,"  concluded  the  lawyer.  "  And 
you  will  do  well  to  keep  the  appoint- 
ment, Major,  this  time,"  he  significant- 
ly added.  "  If  you  do  not,  we  will  not 
wait  another  hour." 

The  speaker  turned  out  of  the  passage 
into  the  pool  at  its  entrance,  and  then 
waded  through  other  pools  down  the 
street.  Major  Dawkes  and  his  friend 
stood  watching  him.  The  Major's  cab 
waited,  but  his  man,  probably  not  ex- 
pecting him  so  soon,  was  in  the  public- 
house  round  the  coi-ner.  Somebody 
else's  man  flew  to  fetch  him. 

"  Horrid  wretches  these  creditors 
are  !"  cried  the  Major's  friend  in  warm 
sympathy.  "  But  it  is  the  most  incom- 
prehensible thing  in  the  world,  Dawkes, 
that  you  should  suffer  yourself  to  be 
bothered  in  this  way.  Of  course  it  is 
no  secret  that  you  are  up  to  your  eyes 
in  embarrassment ;  there's  not  a  fellow 
in  the  regiment  owes  half  what  you  do 
for  play,  let  alone  other  debts.  Why 
don't  you  pay  up,  and  get  clear  ?  " 

"  Where's  the  money  to  do  it  ?  "  re- 
torted the  Major.  "  I  don't  possess  a 
mine  of  gold." 

"  But  your  wife  does.  She  has 
thousands  and  thousands  and  thousands 
a-year.     Wrhere  does  it  all  go  to  ?  " 

"  Nonsense  !  My  wife's  income  is 
not  half  so  much,"  peevishly  said  Major 
Dawkes,  possibly  oblivious  that  no  par- 
ticular sum  had  been  specified.  "  It 
might  be,  if  her  child  died." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  forgot ;  the  best  part  of 
the  ingots  are  settled  on  little  Canter- 
bury. Can't  you  touch  a  few  of  his 
thousands  ?  " 

"  No ;  or  I  should  not  have  waited 
until  now  to  do  it.     His  thousands  are 


tied  up  to  accumulate.  His  will  be  a 
lordly  fortune  by  the  time  he  is  of  age." 
"  But  with  so  much  money  in  the 
family — }rour  own  sou's,  as  inay  be  said 
— surely  there  are  ways  of  getting  at  it. 
You  might  have  the  use  of  some  to 
clear  you,  and  pay  it  back  at  your  leis- 
ure." 

"  So  I  would,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
boy's  trustee,"  returned  the  Major. 
"  He's  as  tight  a  hand  as  you  could  find. 
The  point  was  put  to  him  some  weeks 
ago  ;  I  broached  it  myself,  not  taking 
Mrs.  Dawkes  into  my  counsels ;  and 
Kage  cut  me  short  with  a  haughty  de- 
nial.    He's  a  regular  curmudgeon." 

Little  .thought  the  Major  that  the 
"  curmudgeon  "  was  in  the  dark  passage 
behind  him  and  his  confidential  friend. 
To  play  the  eavesdropper  was  particu- 
larly objectionable  to  Thomas  Kage, 
but  he  would  very  decidedly  have  ob- 
jected to  show  himself  just  now. 

"  But  if  things  are  like  this,  Dawkes, 
how  on  earth  can  jtou  expect  to  get 
clear  ?  "  demanded  his  friend. 

The  Major  did  not  answer.  He 
bared  his  brow  for  a  moment  to  the 
damp  air  :  a  whole  world  of  care  seemed 
to  be  seated  there. 

"  Pull  up  while  there's  time,  Dawkes," 
was  the  prudent  advice  next  offered. 
"  How  can  you  go  on,  plunging  farther 
into  the  mud,  at  the  rate  you  do  ?  To- 
night you  must  have  lost — " 

"It  is  in  my  nature  to  spend,  and 
spend  I  must,  let  who  will  suffer,"  fear- 
lessly interrupted  the  Major. 

"  Well,"  said  the  other  candidly,  "  it 
does  seem  hard  that  a  sickly  child  should 
be  keeping  you  out  of  this  immense 
wealth." 

So  hard  did  it  seem,  that  Major 
Dawkes  gave  a  curse  to  it  in  his  heart; 
and  another  curse,  spoken,  to  his  servant, 
who  now  dashed  up.  He  entered  his 
cab,  and  giving  his  friend  a  lift,  was 
driven  away,  while  Mr.  Kage  was  admit- 
ted to  the  hidden  mysteries  of  the  house. 
But  with  his  business  there  we  have 
nothing  to  do. 

Several  weeks  had  gone  on  since  Mrs. 
Garstou's  death,  when  we  last  saw  Major 
Dawkes.  How  he  had  gone  on  was  a 
different  affair  altogether,  and  not  so  easy 
to  discern.  At  that  time  he  had  thought 
it  an  impossibility  that  many  days  could 
pass  over  his  head  without  the  mine,  he 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


■205 


always  trod  on,  exploding  ;  and  yet  they 
had  :  the  rlauie  had  only  been  smoulder- 
ing until  now.  But  things  were  growing 
more  ominous  hour  by  hour;  and  per- 
haps the  Major  continued  to  enter  into 
undesirable  expenses  as  much  to  drown 
care  as  from  infatuation. 

Mrs.  Dawkes  had  been  ill — seriously 
so.  A  return  of  the  chest- attack  she 
had  early  in  the  spring  came  on  ;  the  re- 
sult of  late  hours  and  her  own  impru- 
dence, as  the  doctors  told  her.  She  was 
not  strong  naturally,  and  she  was  doing 
what  she  could,  in  the  shape  of  turning 
night  into  da}T  in  her  pursuit  of  gaiety, 
to  bring  her  lack  of  strength  conspicu- 
ously forth.  For  three  weeks  she  had 
been  confined  to  her  bed,  but  was  getting 
better  now. 

When  Major  Dawkes's  cab  deposited 
him  at  his  house  in  Belgravia — return- 
ing now  to  the  present  night,  making 
itself  so  agreeable  with  rain — he  ascend- 
ed at  once  to  his  bedroom  ;  one  he  had 
been  occupying  temporarily  since  his 
wife's  illness.  It  was  on  the  floor  above 
hers,  and  immediately  opposite  the  da}'- 
nursery  of  little  Tom  Canterbury.  Put- 
ting off  his  regimentals  and  other  things 
as  quickly  as  he  could,  the  Major  got  in- 
to bed.  But  not  to  sleep  :  anxiety  pre- 
vented that.  He  had  taken  nothing 
since  leaving  the  gambling-house,  and 
his  brain  was  getting  somewhat  clearer. 
It  is  at  these  moments  that  any  trouble 
that  a  man  may  have  shows  itself  with 
redoubled  force.  Time  had  been  when 
Major  Dawkes  sent  away  trouble  with 
what  he  had  an  hour  before  bestowed  up- 
on his  servant — a  curse.  He  was  of  a 
selfish,  reckless  nature,  and  would  not 
let  things  worrj-  him.  Ah,  but  then  his 
worst  trouble  had  been  debt ;  now  it  was 
something  else,  and  he  had  dwelt  on  it 
until  it  had  made  him  painfull}7  nervous. 
His  position  was  looking  fearfully  black, 
and  the  Major  did  not  see  how  to  im- 
prove it. 

In  saying  he  was  by  nature  a  spend- 
thrift, Barnaby  Dawkes  spoke  only  partial 
truth ;  it  would  have  been  more  correct 
had  he  said  by  habit.  To  launch  out  in- 
to sinful  expenses  was  only  customary 
with  him ;  but  these  expenses  had  at 
length  brought  their  consequences  be- 
hind them.  Very  unhappy  was  it  for 
Barby  Dawkes  that  the  consequences  did 
not  consist  of  debt  alone. 


At  the  turn  of  the  past  Christmas, 
Major  Dawkes,  to  get  himself  out  of  some 
frightful  pit  of  embarrassment,  obtained 
money  upon  a  bill,  which — which — had 
something  peculiar  about  it,  to  speak 
cautiously ;  and  which,  later,  perhaps 
nobody  would  be  found  to  own.  So  easy 
a  way  did  it  seem  to  Major  Dawkes  of 
relieving  himself  of  a  load  of  temporary 
care,  that  he  tried  the  process  again,  and 
once  or  so  again.  This  was  the  secret 
breathed  to  Keziah  that  night  when  the 
Major  visited  her.  This  was  the  secret 
that  Jessup,  the  lawj'er,  got  access  to. 
The  Major  used  superhuman  efforts,  and 
patched  up  matters  for  a  time,  and  so 
averted  an  explosion.  But  the  secret  had 
now  been  discovered  by  two  or  three 
most  undesirable  people  who  were  inter- 
ested, and  public  exposure  was  looming 
ominously  near. 

A  firm  had  innocently  discounted  one 
of  these  bills — solicitors  in  sharp  prac- 
tice. One  of  the  partners  it  was  who 
had  lain  in  wait  for  the  Major  in  the 
dark  passage.  Perhaps  they  might  be 
induced  to  hush  the  affair  up  for  "  a  con- 
sideration," in  addition  to  all  the  money 
and  expenses,  otherwise  they  were 
threatening  criminal  proceedings;  ay, 
and  as  the  miserable  Major  knew,  they 
would  inevitably  keep  their  word.  For 
the  bill,  you  see,  had  got  somebodj-'s 
name  to  it,  and  that  somebody  had  never 
written  it,  or  heard  of  it.  That  was  only 
one  of  the  bills  ;  there  were  one  or  two 
more  quite  as  doubtful.  Other  parties  to 
whom  the  Major  was  under  terrible  obli- 
gations, legal,  if  not  criminal,  had  be- 
come tired  out,  and  were  about  to  take 
very  unpleasant  steps.  What  with  one 
thing  and  another,  it  seemed  to  the  man 
that  a  fortune  almost  as  great  as  Tom 
Canterbury's  was  needed  to  extricate 
him. 

It  was  a  perilous  position  ;  more  than 
enough  to  disturb  the  Major's  rest.  He 
knew  quite  well  that  if  all  came  out  that 
might  come  out — and  there  were  matters 
besides  the  peculiar  bills — things  must  be 
over  with  him.  His  wife  would  quit  him  ; 
the  army  would  drum  him  out  of  it ;  so- 
ciety would  scout  him. 

"  A  nice  state  of  affairs  !  "  groaned  the 
Major.  "  Something  must  be  done.  What 
a  fool  I  have  been  !  " 

Something!  But  what?  The  help 
he  wanted  was  no  slight  sum  ;  and  he 


200 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


saw  but  one  hope — and  that  not  a  real 
hope  ;  only  a  possible  one.  A  persistent 
mind,  indeed,  must  be  Major  Davvkes's 
to  cherish  it  still — though  in  fact  he  did 
not  cherish  it,  but  only  glanced  to  it  in 
sanguine  moments  ;  for  it  was  the  old 
scheme  of  getting  some  of  the  child's 
money  from  Mr.  Kage.  Only  a  few 
thousands  out  of  the  boy's  large  fortune, 
he  would  say  to  himself — only  a  few 
thousands  !  The  thought  of  this  fortune, 
so  close  at  hand,  yet  so  inaccessible  to 
])im — for,  if  the  child  died,  you  remember, 
the  whole  of  it  reverted  to  Mrs.  Dawkes 
— had  begun  to  be  to  the  Major  as  a  very 
nightmare:  it  haunted  his  dreams,  it 
haunted  his  daily  thoughts  ;  it  was  ever 
present  to  him,  sleeping  or  waking. 
Like  unto  the  gold-fever  that  fell  on  some 
of  us  years  ago,  and  sent  us  out  to  Aus- 
tralia little  better  than  eager  madmen, 
so  had  a  gold-fever  attacked  Major 
Dawkes.  As  the  value  of  a  thing  covet- 
ed is  enhanced  to  a  fabulous  height  by 
longing,  and  diminished  by  possession,  so 
did  this  fortune  of  little  Tom  Canter- 
bury's wear,  to  his  stepfather,  an  aspect 
of  most  delusive  brightness.  In  its  at- 
tainment appeared  to  lie  the  panacea  for 
all  ills  ;  the  recompense  for  past  and 
present  troubles ;  a  charming,  golden 
paradise. 

Major  Dawkes  had  a  particular  dislik- 
ing for  children  ;  but  in  feigning  a  love 
for  little  Tom  Canterbury  before  the  mar- 
riage— to  ingratiate  himself  with  the 
child's  mother — he  had  really  acquired  a 
liking  for  him.  This  in  a  degree  wore 
oii'  later;  and  he  was  often  severe  with 
the  child — a  mild  gentle  little  follow 
whom  any  one  might  love — but  on  the 
whole  he  liked  the  boy.  However,  since 
this  hankering  after  his  fortune  had  aris- 
en, Major  Dawkes  had  almost  grown  to 
hate  him,  looking  on  him  as  a  deadly 
enemy  who  stood  between  him  and  light. 

In  spite  of  his  fast  habits,  few  men 
living  cared  so  much  to  stand  well  with 
the  world  as  Barnaby  Dawkes :  certain- 
ly none  so  dreaded  to  stand  ill  with  it. 
There  was  one  ugly  word  moving  ever 
before  his  mental  sight  in  fierce  letters  of 
flame — F-o-r-g-e-r-y.  Rather  than  have 
such  a  word  brought  home  to  him,  he 
would  have  died  —  and  Major  Dawkes 
was  very  fond  of  life.  It  was  not  the 
act  itself  he  repented,  but  the  chance  of 
exposure.  Safe  from  that,  he  would  have 
done  the  same  thing  to  the  end  of  time. 


Dropping  asleep  towards  morning,  he 
dreamt  that  he  was  in  the  midst  of  some 
surging  sea,  whose  waves  were  perpetu- 
ally going  to  overwhelm  him.  He  want- 
ed to  turn  his  head. and  look  behind,  but 
the  waves  would  not  let  him.  He  knew 
that  some  awful  phantom  was  there  in  his 
pursuit,  to  overtake  him  unless  he  turn- 
ed to  confront  it ;  and  yet  he  could  not. 
A  fresh  and  curious  epoch  must  have  ar- 
rived in  Major  Dawkes's  life  when  it 
came  to  dreams. 

Remembering  his  engagement  for  the 
morning,  Major  Dawkes  rose  in  time  to 
keep  it.  That  might  no  longer  be  ig- 
nored— as  he  knew  too  well.  Swallow- 
ing his  breakfast  with  what  appetite  he 
had,  he  took  his  departure.  Of  the  two, 
Barnaby  Dawkes  would  rather  havo 
gone  to  an  hour's  recreation  in  the  pil- 
iory  than  to  the  appointment  in  the 
house  of  this  legal  firm,  with  the  brand 
of  guilt  and  shame  on  his  forehead. 

And  yet,  in  one  sense,  the  interview 
must  be  utterly  superfluous.  All  the 
argument  in  the  world  would  but  have 
amounted  to  this — that  the  full  indem- 
nifying money  must  be  produced,  or  the 
Major  would  be  made  a  nine  days'  spec- 
tacle. He  knew  it  himself,  as  he  dash- 
ed there  in  his  carriage,  driving  his 
high  -  mettled  horses.  Humble  pedes- 
trians, glancing  admiringly  up  from  the 
pavement,  thought  what  a  great  man 
the  Jehu  must  be,  and  how  silky  was 
his  fine  black  moustache  ;  but  they 
could  not  read  his  heart,  or  see  the  can- 
kering care  eating  it  away.  The  car- 
riage drew  up  in  Lincoln's-inn,  and  the 
Major  went  into  purgatory.  The  con- 
sultation was  a  pretty  long  one ;  the 
lawyers  were  uncompromising,  and  the 
client  was  almost  helpless  ;  but  he  ar- 
gued and  denied  and  equivocated  ;  and 
then  they  rang  a  bell,  and  desired  a 
clerk  to  hold  himself  in  readiness  to 
perform  a  certain  mission  at  Scotland- 
yard.  The  Major  was  brought  meta- 
phorically to  his  knees,  and  he  came 
forth  at  length  with  a  knitted  brow.   • 

"  Where  the  devil  am  I  to  get  it  ?  " 
was  the  puzzling  question  put  to  him- 
self, and  spoken  unconsciously  aloud  as 
he  ascended  to  his  carriage.  Again  and 
again  he  saw  but  one  solitary  opening — 
the  appealing  to  Mr.  Kage.  Look 
where  he  would,  around  the  whole  wide 
world,  he  saw  no  other. 

He   drove   straight   home,  regardless 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


207 


of  a  pelting1  shower  that  was  coming 
down,  upon  him,  and  found  a  bevy  of 
visitors  in  the  drawing-room.  Mrs. 
Dawkes,  lovely  still,  but  pale  from  her 
recent  illness,  sat  in  their  midst,  her  at- 
tire— mauve  color — charming  as  usual  ; 
a  lame  apology  for  mourning,  worn 
for  Mrs.  Gkirston.  Talking  with  one, 
laughing  with  another,  exacting  admira- 
tion from  all  :  an  adept  was  she  in  the 
wiles  and  the  petty  nothings  of  frivolous 
existence.  The  Major  saw  no  chance  of 
private  conversation  with  her  then,  and 
shut  the  door  with  a  suppressed  growl, 
not  caring  whether  he  had  been  per- 
ceived or  not. 

When  these  idlers  were  gone  and  the 
sun  was  shining  again,  Mrs.  Dawkes 
called  for  her  boy.  He  had  been  sitting 
on  the  stairs,  patient,  loving  child,  hop- 
ing for  the  summons.  Indulged  though 
he  was  by  his  mother,  never  was  there  a 
more  obedient,  modest,  good  little  son 
than  he,  never  presuming  upon  her  af- 
fection. He  wore  the  Scotch  dress,  and 
his  fair  curls  floated  on  his  neck  :  nearly 
seven  years  old  now  he  scarcely  looked 
his  age.  Mrs.  Dawkes  once  said  to  Mr. 
Kage  that  the  child  had  a  strange  affin- 
ity for  her ;  if  she  drooped,  he  drooped. 
Certain  it  was  that,  during  this  recent 
illness  of  hers,  the  boy  had  seemed  pale, 
languid,  anything  but  well.  Exceed- 
ingly delicate  he  looked  to-day,  as  she 
took  him  on  her  knees. 

"  Did  you  eat  a  good  dinner,  Tom  ?  " 

"  0  yes,  mamma." 

"  What  did  you  have  ?  " 

"  Some  fowl  and  some  custard-pud- 
ding and  some  jam.  I've  been  reading 
my  fairy-tales  since.  Judith's  mending 
my  puzzle." 

"  Is  she  getting  ready  to  take  you 
cut,  Tom?     It's  time." 

"I  told  her  I'd  not  go,"  said  Tom. 
"  I'd  rather  stay  with  you,  mamma. 
When  will  you  come  out  with  me 
again  ?  " 

i£  When  this  showery  weather  is 
over,"  replied  Mrs.  Dawkes,  who  had 
not  been  allowed  to  go  out  of  doors 
since  her  illness.     "  But,  Tom — " 

What  she  had  been  about  to  say  was 
arrested  by  the  appearance  of  Major 
Dawkes.  Putting  his  head  in  to  recon- 
noitre, and  seeing  the  room  now  clear 
of  visitors,  he  came  forward. 

"  Caroline,"  said  he,  "  send  Tom 
away.     I  want  to  speak  with  you." 


"Is  it  something  you  cannot  say  be- 
fore him?"  she  asked;  for  there  was 
no  longer  much  cordial  feeling  in  her 
heart  for  her  husband,  though  they 
maintained  a  show  of  civility. 

"  Are  you  so  infatuated  with  that 
child  that  you  cannot  bear  him  out  of 
your  sight?"  angrily  demanded  the 
Major,  who  was  in  a  most  wretched  mood, 
and  particularly  bitter  against  the  child. 
Mrs.  Dawkes  was  surprised  :  his 
ebullitions  of  temper  had  usually  been 
restrained  in  her  presence.  She  did  not 
condescend  to  retort. 

"  Go  to  that  table,  Thomas,  and 
amuse  yourself  with  the  large  picture- 
book,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  far  end 
of  the  room,  where  he  would  be  out  of 
hearing.  ".  What  is  it  ?  "  she  apatheti- 
cally said,  addressing  her  husband. 

"  My  dear,  you  must  pardon  me ;  I 
am  in  much  trouble  and  perplexity," 
resumed  the  Major,  remembering  that  to 
provoke-  his  wife  was  not  exactly  the 
best  way  to  attain  his  ends.  "  It  is 
frightful  trouble,  Caroline  ;  and  nothing 
less." 

"  0,  indeed.  Have  you  broken  your 
horses'  knees?  I  saw  you  drive  away 
rather  furiously  this  morning." 

"  I  have  been  answering  for  the  debts 
of  a  brother-officer,  Caroline,  and  have 
got  into  difficulties  through  it,"  he 
avowed,  having  mentally  rehearsed  the 
tale  he  meant  to  tell. 

"  Rather  imprudent  in  you  to  do  so, 

was  it  not  ?  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Dawkes. 

"  I    suppose    it    was,  as    things   have 

turned  out;  for  he  died,  and  it  has  fallen 

on  me." 

"  The  liability  ?  " 
The  Major  nodded. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  pay  it  off,  as 
I  could,  and  have  run  into  debt  myself 
in  consequence.  Caroline,  my  dear," 
he  added  in  a  sepulchral  tone,  "  your 
husband  is  a  ruined  man." 

To  Mrs.  Dawkes,  who  had  a  splendid 
country  mansion  and  some  thousands 
a-year  in  her  own  right,  of  which  no- 
body's imprudence  could  deprive  her, 
husband  or  no  husband,  the  above  an- 
nouncement did  not  convey  the  dismay « 
it  would  to  many  wives.  Not  to  mince 
the  matter,  the  Major,  looking  at  her 
from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  saw  that  it 
had  made  no  impression  whatever. 

"  How  will  you  get  out  of  the  mess  ?" 
quoth  she. 


208 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


"I  can  get  out  of  it  in  two  ways. 
One  is  by  paying  up ;  the  other,  by 
shooting  myself." 

"  Ah,"  said  she  equably,  "people  who 
talk  of  shooting  themselves  rarely  do  it. 
Don't  be  an  idiot,  Barnaby." 

"  Caroline,"  he  rejoined  in  a  tone  that 
was  certainly  agitated,  "  if  I  make  light 
of  it  to  you,  it  is  to  save  you  vexation  : 
but  I  speak  literally  and  truly  that  I 
must  pay,  or — or — disappear  somewhere 
— either  into  the  earth  or  over  the  seas." 

"  What  can  be  done  ?  "  she  inquired, 
after  a  pause  of  consideration.  "  We 
have  no  ready-money  to  spare  :  our  ex- 
penses seem  to  swallow  up  everything. 
Often  I  can't  make  it  out." 

"  Our  ready-money  would  not  suffice. 
The  poor  fellow  was  inextricably  in- 
volved ;  and,"  he  added,  dropping  his 
voice  to  a  faint  whisper,  "  ten  or  twelve 
thousand  pounds  would  not  more  than 
pay  it." 

Mrs.  Dawkes  gave  a  scream  of  semi- 
dismay.  As  to  the  "  ten  or  twelve 
thousand,"  the  Major  did  not  think  it 
prudent  to  mention  a  higher  sum  then, 
but  that  much  would  prove  but  a  sop  in 
the  pan. 

"But  for  that  deceitful  old  aunt  of 
mine  dying,  and  leaving  me  nothing  in 
her  will  (I  hope  that  there's  a  Protes- 
tant purgatory,  and  that  she's  in  it !)  I 
should  never  have  had  occasion  to  tell 
you  this.  Indeed,  but  for  the  expec- 
tation of  inheriting  her  fortune,  I  should 
not  have  answered  for  the  poor  fellow." 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "-  repeated 
Mrs.  Dawkes,  returning  to  the  practical 
consideration  of  the  dilemma,  and  leav- 
ing the  bygone  "  expectation  "  in  abey- 
ance ;  for  it  was  a  question  upon  which 
she  and  he  entertained  opposite  opinions. 

"  One  thing  can  be  done,  Caroline ; 
you  can  help  me  out — if  you  will." 

"  I ! "  she  repeated. 

"  You  can  get  Tom's  trustee,  Kage,  to 
let  me  have  the  money.  I  will  repay  it 
as  soon  as  I  possibly  can.  There  will 
be  no  difficulty  in  that,  and  no  risk." 

"  He  will  not  do  it." 

"  He  will,  if  you  bid  him.  For  me 
he  would  not." 

"  He  never  will,"  she  repeated.  "  I 
know  Thomas  Kage  too  well.  He  is 
the  most  perfectly  straight-forward,  hon- 
orable man  breathing ;  ridiculously  so. 
I  am  right,  Barnaby,  cross  as  you  look 


over  it.  Tom's  money  is  not  his  to  lend, 
and  I  am  sure  he  would  not  advance  a 
pound  of  it." 

Major  Dawkes  nearly  lost  his  temper. 
It  was  a  way  of  meeting  the  request  that 
he  did  not  at  all  admire. 

"  Will  you  ask  Kage  ?  " 

"No.     Ask  him  yourself." 

"  An  ill-conditioned  worthless  man  ! 
He  never  ought  to  have  been  made  the 
boy's  trustee,"  spoke  the  Major  in  a  sup- 
pressed foam. 

Mrs.  Dawkes  smiled  equably. 

"  If  you  were  but  half  as  worthy  as 
he!" 

"  Will  you  lend  it  me  ?  "  demanded 
the  Major. 

"  I  have  not  the  power;  and  if  I  had 
I  would  not  suffer  Tom's  money  to  be 
played  with." 

"You  have  this  much  power ;  any  re- 
quest preferred  to  Kage  by  you,  and 
made  a  point  of,  would  be  complied 
with." 

"Nonsense!  I'll  do  nothing  of  the 
kind.  M}T  child  is  my  child,  and  his  in- 
terests are  identified  with  mine.  You 
should  not  get  into  these  liabilities.  No 
man  would,  with  common  foresight,  un- 
less he  knows  that  he  will  have  the  means 
to  meet  them." 

Angry  and  wroth,  Major  Dawkes  broke 
out  in  a  temper.  The  little  boy,  most 
sensitively  timid,  shivered  at  the  raised 
voices,  left  his  picture-book  and  stoJe  for- 
ward, halting  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"You  see  how  necessary  it  is  that 
Tom's  trustee  should  be  a  man  of  firm- 
ness, that  he  may  guard  against  such 
emergencies  as  the  present,"  spoke  Mrs. 
Dawkes  rather  tauntingly — at  least,  it  so 
sounded  to  the  Major's  pricking  ears. 
"  I  am  very  sorry,  Barnaby,  that  you 
should  have  got  yourself  into  this  dilem- 
ma ;  but  it  is  not  my  boy's  money  that 
can  extricate  you  from  it.-" 

Biting  his  lips  to  control  his  fury,  Ma- 
jor Dawkes  turned  round  and  stepped 
against  the  child,  not  knowing  he  stood 
so  near  him."  It  wanted  but  that  en- 
counter to  set  him  off.  Out  came  the 
passion. 

"  You  little  villain,"  he  cried  with  an 
imprecation,  "  do  you  dare  to  stand  be- 
tween me  and  —  and  —  your  mother  ? 
There's  for  you  !  " 

It  was  a  cruel  blow  he  struck  the  child, 
and  it  felled  him  to  the  ground.     Quite 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


209 


beside  himself  in  the  blind  hatred  of  the 
moment,  the  irrepressible  passion,  Ma- 
jor Dawkes  gave  him  a  kick  as  he  la\T — 
one  of  contempt  more  than  of  violence 
— and  went  from  the  room,  a  furious 
man.  Mrs.  Dawkes  raised  the  boy  in 
her  arms  and  tottered  to  a  seat;  weak 
from  her  late  iliness,  it  was  indignation 
that  gave  her  strength  to  bear  him.  For 
several  minutes  neither  of  them  spoke. 
The  child  sobbed  on  her  neck;  she  sobbed 
on  his. 

"  Mamma,  what  had  I  done  ?  " 
li  You  have  done  nothing,  my  darling. 
He  wants  to    spend  your    money,"    she 
added  in  her  indignant  resentment. 

"  0  mamma,  let  him  have  it  ;  let  us 
go  awajT  from  here  !  Papa  is  never  kind 
to  me  now." 

"  Yes,  we  will  go  away,"  she  emphat- 
ically rejoined.  "  We  will  go  to  the 
Rock,  my  boy ;  your  own  home,  and 
mine.  If  papa  likes  to  follow  us,  and 
behave  himself,  he  may  ;  and  if  not,  he 
can  stay  where  he  is." 

"Let  papa  have  my  money,"  repeated 
Tom  Canterbury.  li  I  don't  care  for 
money." 

"  You  do  not  understand,  dear.  The 
money  is  Mr.  Kage's  at  present ;  he 
would  not  give  it  to  Major  Dawkes  if  he 
asked  him  ever  so." 

In  came  Judith  at  this  juncture,  ready 
to  attend  Master  Canterbury  on  his 
walk.  She  saw  the  tears  and  the  red 
eyes. 

"  Why,  what  has  taken  him  now  ?  " 
cried  she  in  surprise. 

"  He  has  been  vexed,"  replied  Mrs. 
Dawkes  hastily  ;  "  a  little  thing  seems 
to  vex  him  now.  I  don't  think  he  can 
be  quite  well,  Judith." 

"  It's  the  warm  weather,  ma'am,"  said 
Judith.  "He'll  get  up  all  right  after 
a  bit.  What  he  wants  is  fresh  country 
air." 

"  And  he  shall  have  it  too.  The  streets 
are  damp  after  the  rain,  Judith,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Dawkes,  "  too  damp  for  him 
to  walk.  You  had  better  order  the  car- 
riage." 

So  the  carriage  came  round,  and  the 
young  heir  of  the  Rock  was  driven  away 
in  it  to  take  the  air,  his  nurse  sitting 
opposite  to  him.  When  the  sound  of  the 
wheels  had  faded  away  on  the  ear,  Major 
Dawkes  entered  the  drawing-room.  He 
was  ready  to  strike  himself  down,  as  he 
13 


had  struck  the  boy,  for  giving  way  to  so 
impolitic  a  gust  of  passion.  His  wife 
listened  to  his  apologies  in  haughty 
silence. 

"  Caroline,  believe  me,  I  was  betrayed 
out  of  my  senses  ;  but  it  arose  from  over- 
anxietj'  for  your  peace  and  comfort." 

"  It  is  for  my  peace  and  comfort  that 
you  ill-treat  my  child  !  "  sarcastically  re- 
joined Mrs.  Dawkes. 

"  He  is  an  angel,  and  I  love  him  as 
such,"  proclaimed  the  Major  emphatical- 
ly. "  1  was  in  a  whirlwind  of  passion, 
Caroline,  and  did  not  know  in  the  least 
what  I  did.  I  was  agonized  at  the 
prospect  before  you  :  yes,  my  dear,  before 
3rou  :  for  if  I  can't  pay  that  poor  dead 
man's  creditors,  they'll  come  in.  Into 
this  very  house,  and  seize  upon  it,  and 
all  that  is  in  it." 

"  Seize  our  house  and  all  that  is  in  it !  " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Dawkes  in  an  access  of* 
consternation. 

"  Every  earthly  thing  the  walls  con- 
tain." 

"  Will  they  seize  me  and  Tom  ?  " 

Major  Dawkes  gave  vent  to  a  dismal 
groan  :  but  for  his  state  of  mind  it  would 
have  been  a  laugh.  Mrs.  Dawkes,  shield- 
ed always  from  this  kind  of  the  world's 
frowns,  utterly  inexperienced,  had  put 
the  question  in  real  earnest. 

"  They'd  not  touch  you  and  Tom,  my 
dear ;  but  they  would  take  every  stick 
and  stone  in  the  place.  They  are  frigh  t- 
ful  harpies.  You  would  be  left  here  with 
bare  rooms,  and  I  should  be  in  prison, 
unable  to  protect  you.  It  is  not  that ; 
think  of  the  shock  such  a  scandal  would 
cause  in  society  !  " 

The  last  sentence  told  on  her  ear.  So- 
ciety ?  Ay,  there's  the  terrible  bngbear 
of  civilised  life.  What  will  society 
think  ?  what  will  society  say  ?  But  for 
society  our  "  sticks  and  stones  "  would 
often  be  lost  with  less  intense  pain  than 
they  are.  Major  Dawkes  enlarged  upon 
the  frightful  prospect,  painting  the 
scenes  of  the  canvas  in  strong  colors, 
until  his  wife  shrank  from  it  as  much  as 
he  did.  Writing  a  note,  she  despatched 
it  by  a  servant  to  Mx.  Kage's  chambers. 

When  little  Tom  Canterbury  got  home 
from  his  drive,  his  stepfather  lifted  him 
from  the  carriage  himself  and  carried 
him  in  to  his  mother.  He  did  feel  sorry 
for  having  struck  the  blow. 


210 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


CHAPTEE   XXXIII. 

A  FLOOD  OF  GOLDEN  SUNLIGHT. 

Sitting  alone  together  in  the  even- 
ing twilight,  Mrs.  Dawkes  explained  the 
embarrassment  to  Thomas  Kage,  who 
had  answered  her  summons  speedily. 
Years  ago — he  remembered  it  well,  and 
so  did  she — he  had  bid  her  send  for  him, 
if  in  need  of  counsel,  at  any  hour  of  the 
day  or  night.  That  is,  she  explained  the 
embarrassment  as  far  as  she  was  cogni- 
zant of  it ;  and  then  preferred  the  request 
— that  Mr.  Kage  would  advance  some 
twelve  thousand  pounds  of  Tom's  money 
to  her  husband. 

"  Major  Dawkes  has  been  prompting 
you  to  ask  this,"  was  the  barrister's  an- 
swer. 

"  He  pressed  me  to  ask  it  to-day ;  I 
refused  to  do  so  at  first,  and  it  caused  an 
unpleasant  scene  between  us,"  she  said, 
her  cheek  reddening  with  the  remem- 
brance. "  But  when  he  explained  the 
frightful  position  we  are  in — that  rude 
rough  men,  harpies  he  called  them,  will 
break  in  here  and  seize  upon  our  things, 
and  leave  the  house  empty,  of  course  it 
startled  me  into  feeling  that  something 
must  be  done  to  prevent  it.  The  Major 
says  they'll  bring  vans  to  take  the  furni- 
ture away,  and  pitch  beds  and  such  like 
out  of  the  window  into  the  street.  Only 
think  the  uproar  the  neighborhood  would 
be  in,  seeing  that." 

"Caroline,"  rejoined  Mr.  Kage  in  a 
low  tone,  "  when  I  finally  decided  to  act 
as  the  child's  trustee — and  you  know  I 
at  first  wished  to  decline  it — one  reason 
for  my  doing  so  was,  that  I  might  iden- 
tify myself  with,  and  protect,  his  inter- 
ests. I  informed  you  that  I  should  nev- 
er, under  any  inducement,  be  prevailed 
upon  to  advance  you,  or  any  future  hus- 
band you  might  take,  or  any  other  person 
whatsoever,  any  portion  of  the  money. 
You  must  remember  this  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  remember  it ;  it  is  not 
so  long  ago." 

"  Then,  remembering  this,  how  can 
you  prefer  such  a  request  as  the  present  ? 
I  have  foreseen  that  a  man,  with  your 
husband's  extravagant  habits,  would 
probably  become  embarrassed,  and — " 

"  Did  you  ?"  interrupted  Caroline,  in 
great  surprise  ;  "  I'm  sure  he  has  had 
enough  to  spend.  But  this  trouble  is  not 
caused  by  the  Major's  own  debts  ;  they 


are  liabilities  he  has  entered  into  for  a 
brother-officer." 

Mr.  Kage  looked  at  her. 

"  Did  Major  Dawkes  tell  you  this  ?  " 

She  knew  her  cousin  well,  every  turn 
of  his  countenance  and  voice. 

"  Thomas,  you  don't  believe  this  !  " 

"  I  prefer  not  to  discuss  the  matter 
with  you,  Caroline." 

"  Whichever  way  it  may  be,  however 
contracted,  the  debts  are  not  the  less 
real,"  she  continued  ;  "  and  nothing  but 
the  scandal  likely  to  arise  in  our  home 
would  have  induced  me  to  apply  to  you 
for  a  loan  to  him  of  Tom's  money.  Will 
you  let  him  have  it  ?  " 

"  No.  And  I  am  sorry  that  Major 
Dawkes  should  have  suggested  this  to 
you.  He  had  alreacly  had  a  decisive  neg- 
ative from  me." 

"  Has  he  asked  you  before  ?" 

"  Yes.     Several  weeks  ago." 

"  0,  indeed,"  she  uttered  in  a  tone  of 
pique ;  pique  against  her  husband.  "  He 
might  have  had  the  grace  to  consult  me 
first,  considering  whose  money  it  is." 

Mr.  Kage  had  thought  so  at  the  time. 
He  made  no  remark. 

"  You  will  advance  it  now,  Thomas, 
for  my  sake." 

"  I  would  do  a  great  deal  for  your 
sake,  Caroline  ;  but  not  this.  1  will  not 
be  a  false  trustee,  or  part  with  my  own 
integrity." 

Some  thought,  some  recollection,  came 
over  Mrs.  Dawkes,  and  she  betrayed  for 
a  moment  vivid  emotion.  Thomas  Kage 
took  up  a  book  that  lay  on  the  table  and 
turned  over  its  leaves.  He  would  not  so 
much  as  glance  at  her. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  if  people  do  come 
in  here  and  take  the  furniture  ?  " 

"  Go  to  the  Rock,  Caroline  :  that  is 
my  advice  to  you.  Go  at  once,  and  leave 
the  Major  to  fight  out  the  battle  with 
his  creditors  !  " 

"  They  cannot  come  into  the  Rock  ?  " 
she  exclaimed  in  sudden  apprehension. 

"  Certainly  not.  The  Major's  liabili- 
ties could  no  more  touch  that,  or  any- 
thing it  contains,  than  mine  could.  It 
is  yours  for  use  until  your  boy  shall  be 
of  age  :  after  that,  his  absolutely." 

"  But  would  not  the  seizing  these 
things  be  like  a  lasting  disgrace  ?  " 

"It  is  a  disgrace  occurring  every  day 
in  families  higher  in  position  than  yours, 
and  it  is  thought  little  of.     But  in  this 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


211 


case,  Caroline,  no  disgrace  will  be  reflect- 
ed on  you.  You  are  shielded  from  it  by 
your  own  position.  It  is  a  peculiar  one. 
You  have  your  large  fortune;  you  are  in 
possession  of  tbo  Rock.  The  Major's 
embarrassments  cannot  touch  you  ;  they 
aie  bis  own  exclusively,  and  people  re- 
gard them  as  such." 

"  Regard  !  "  sbe  interrupted,  quickly 
taking  up  the  word.  "  Are  they  already 
known  ?  " 

"  Somewhat  of  them,  I  fancy.  But 
I  ought  to  have  said,  '  will  regard/  for 
I  was  thinking  of  the  contingency  we 
have  been  speaking  of.  If  these  things 
must  go,  let  them  go,  Caroline  :  it  may 
serve  as  a  warning  to  the  .Major  to  be 
prudent  in  future." 

"  Thomas,  }Tou  know  that  all  the 
things  are  mine.  They  were  bought 
with  my  mone}'." 

"  They  were  purchased  in  his  name, 
and  the  law  can  take  them." 

"  That's  a  great  shame.  The  law 
must  know  they  really  belong  to  me." 

"There  was  no  marriage  settlement, 
you  see,  Caroline." 

"Well,  well,  I  know  how  stupid  that 
was  ;  no  good  going  over  it  again." 

"  None  in  the  world.  I  am  sorry 
your  husband  should  have  troubled  you 
with  this." 

"  He  said  if  he  could  not  have  the 
money  be  would  shoot  himself,"  said 
Mrs.  Dawkes. 

Mr.  Kage's  eyes  twinkled  with  a  mer- 
ry expression. 

"  I  remember,  some  years  ago,  when 
the  Major  was  in  want  of  money,  he 
said  he  must  have  it,  or  drown  himself. 
I  don't  think  he  had  it ;  and  he  is  alive 
yet.  Tell  him,  Caroline,  he  will  do  well 
to  forget  that  Tom  has  money.  And  do 
you  go  at  once  to  the  Rock,  where  the 
Major's  grievances  cannot  disturb  your 
peace." 

"  It  has  just  come  to  what  I  antici- 
pated ;  for  I  did  not  really  expect  you 
would  advance  him  any,"  she  observed 
with  equanimity  ;  "  and  I  know  you  are 
right.  But  won't  he  be  in  a  passion 
when  I  tell  him  !  " 

"  I  will  tell  him  myself,  if  you  like," 
said  Mr.  Kage.  "  Indeed  I  would  pre- 
fer to  do  so." 

Mrs.  Dawkes  acquiesced,  glad  to  have 
the  matter  taken  out  of  her  hands. 
And  the  next  day  the  bewildered  Major 
received    a   short   decisive   note,   which 


convinced  him  that  all  hope  from  that 
quarter  was  really  over. 

Many  a  time  since  has  Thomas  Kage 
asked  himself  the  question,  whether,  if 
Major  Dawkes  had  gone  to  him  and  re- 
vealed the  whole  truth  of  his  peril,  and 
pleaded  to  him  for  salvation,  as  a  man 
just  condemned  sometimes  pleads  to  the 
judge  for  his  life  —  whether  he  might 
have  been  tempted  to  prove  false  to  his 
trust,  and  save  him.  And  he  has  al- 
ways been  thankful  that  the  difficulty 
was  not  brought  to  him. 

The  next  scene  fated  to  be  enacted  in 
the  drama  was  the  illness  of  little  Tom 
Canterbury.  Not  quite  immediately 
did  Mrs.  Dawkes  act  on  Mr.  Kage's  ad- 
vice— to  go  to  the  Rock.  She  could  not 
tear  herself  at  once  from  her  fashionable 
friends  ;  and  she  had  a  ready  excuse  in 
the  fact  that  she  was  yet  rather  weak  for 
travel.  Just  a  few  days  she  intended 
should  elapse  first.  Before  they  were 
over,  Tom  was  taken  ill  with  a  malady 
he  had  been  attacked  with  before — in- 
flammation of  the  chest.  He  was  in 
great  danger.  Mrs.  Dawkes  hung  over 
him,  scarcely  quitting  his  bedside;  now 
giving  way  to  hope,  now  to  all  the  an- 
guish of  despair. 

But  see  you  not  what  a  flood  of  gold- 
en sunlight  this  same  dangerous  illness 
opened  on  the  Major?  It  could  not  be 
said,  perhaps,  that  he  positively  praj'ed 
for  the  child  to  die  ;  but  the  possible 
contingency  la}T  on  his  heart  continually 
in  a  kind  of  wild  wish,  never  leaving  it. 
To  temporize  much  longer  with  those 
men  whom  he  so  terribly  feared  would 
not  be  in  his  power. 

Mrs.  Dawkes  sat  at  the  child's  bed- 
side, the  purple  silk  curtain  drawn  be- 
tween him  and  the  meridian  sun.  There 
appeared  to  be  little  doubt  that  be  was 
dying.  A  wan  white  face  it  was,  laid 
on  the  pillow,  the  blue  eyes  half-closed, 
the  fair  hair  falling  around.  One  hand, 
stretched  out  on  the  counterpane,  held 
the  mother-of-pearl  shell  given  him  by 
Belle  Annesley.  It  was  open  ;  and  the 
vivid  coloring  of  the  angels'  robes  in  the 
picture,  bearing  the  child  to  heaven, 
shone  brightly  in  a  stray  sunbeam  that 
fell  across  the  bed.  It  was  strange  the 
hold  this  simple  toy  bad  taken — or  rath- 
er the  picture  it  contained — on  the  im- 
agination of  the  boy :  he  was,  in  good 
truth,  too  susceptible. 

He   had   been    lying   for   some   time 


212 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


without  moving,  his  mother  -watching 
him,  tears  in  her  eyes,  a  dull  pain  in  her 
aching  heart,  when  the  eyes  fully  open- 
ed, and  some  slight  animation  appeared 
in  the  still  face. 

"  Let  him  have  my  money,  mamma." 

The  words,  suddenly  breaking  on  the 
previous  stillness,  startled  Mrs.  Dawkes. 
She  did  not  catch  the  thread  of  what  he 
meant. 

"  Let  who  have  your  money,  my  dar- 
ling ?  " 

"  Papa.  0,  let  him  have  it !  He'll 
not  be  angry  with  you  then." 

She  understood  now.  His  mind  was 
running  on  that  unhappj7  scene  of  a 
short  while  before,  when  Major  .Dawkes 
had  struck  him  down,  and  terrified  him 
with  furious  words.  It  had  laid  hold  of 
his  imagination  for  ill. 

"  We  shall  not  want  money  in  heaven, 
mamma." 

"  No,  that  we  shall  not." 

"And  Heaven's  better  than  the 
Bock." 

"  Much  better,"  she  said  from  the 
depths  of  her  weary  heart. 

"  I  wish  I  was  there,"  sighed  the 
child.  "  See  how  good  the  angels  are  !  " 
— with  a  movement  of  the  shell  towards 
her.  "  They  take  us  up  without  any 
pain." 

"  Tom,  ni}7  darling,  don't  talk  of  dy- 
ing.    It  will  break  my  heart." 

But  the  boy  did  not  seem  to  heed  the 
words.  He  lay  with  his  eyes  wide  open, 
as  if  looking  for  something  in  the  dis- 
tance, presently  repeating  again  the  bur- 
den of  his  song. 

"  I  wish  I  was  there !  It  is  full  of 
flowers  and  sunshine  ;  and  no  one  is  cru- 
el ;  Jesus  will  not  let  them  be.  Mamma, 
I  wish  I  was  there." 

And  Mrs.  Dawkes  bent  her  anguished 
brow  on  the  pillow  by  his  side.  The 
wish  sounded  in  her  ears  like  an  omi- 
nous prevision. 

In  the  afternoon  Major  Dawkes  came 
up.  Tom  was  worse  then  ;  lying  almost 
without  motion,  and  breathing  with  diffi- 
cult}7. 

"There  is  no  further  hope  ;  I  am  sure 
of  it,"  moaned  Mrs.  Dawkes  in  her 
heartfelt  anguish. 

The  Major  felt  entirely  of  the  same 
opinion.  He  was  looking  at  the  small 
white  face,  when  one  of  the  servants  ap- 
peared and  cautiously  beckoned  him  out. 
He  was  wanted  downstairs. 


"  You  did  not  saj7  I  was  in  ?  "  utter- 
ed the  Major,  after  closing  the  door  on 
the  sick-room. 

"  The  gentleman  would  not  listen  to 
me,  sir.  He  walked  straight  in,  when  I 
answered  the  door,  and  sat  down  in  the 
dining-room.  He  says  he  shall  sit  there 
till  he  sees  you.     It  is  Mr.  Bosse." 

Major  Dawkes  nearly  fainted.  Mr. 
Bosse  was  a  lawyer,  and  one  of  those 
dangerous  enemies  he  so  dreaded.  Go 
to  him,  he  was  obliged  :  and  yet — he 
scarcely  dared.  He  shrank  from  the  in- 
terview like  the  veriest  coward. 

"  You  are  worse  than  a  fool,  Bichard," 
foamed  the  Major.  "  If  you  cannot 
contrive  to  keep  people  out  of  my  house 
that  I  don't  want  to  see,  you  ma}'  quit 
my  service." 

"  It's  not  possible  to  keep  the  door 
barred,  sir,  with  visitors  and  doctors  and 
other  people  coming  to  it  perpetual," 
was  all  the  answer  Bichard  ventured  to 
make. 

The  conference  was  a  stormy  one, 
though  carried  on  in  cautious  tones,  and 
within  closed  doors.  Things  had  come 
to  an  extremity. 

"  Only  a  few  da}rs  more ;  onlj7  a  day 
or  two  !  "  implored  Major  Dawkes,  wip- 
ing his  forehead,  which  had  turned  cold 
and  damp.  "It  is  impossible  that  he 
can  survive,  and  then  I  shall  have  thou- 
sands and  thousands  at  command,  and 
will  amply  recompense  you.  You  have 
waited  so  long,  you  can  surely  accord  me 
this  little  additional  grace  :  I  will  pay 
the  bill  twice  over  for  it,  and  twice  to 
that." 

"Upon  one  plea  or  another  we  have 
been  put  off  from  day  to  day  and  from 
week  to  week.  This  may  be  as  false 
an  excuse  as  the  others  have  been." 

"  But  it  is  not  a  false  excuse ;  the 
child  is  lying  upon  his  bed,  dying.  If 
Mrs.  Dawkes  were  not  with  him,  you 
might  go  up  and  see  for  yourself  that  it 
is  so.    Hark,  that  is  the  physician's  step." 

The  phj'sician  it  was  ;  he  had  been 
up  stairs,  and  was  coming  down  again. 
Major  Dawkes  threw  wide  the  door  of 
the  dining-room. 

"  Doctor,  what  hope  is  there  ?  I  fear 
but  little." 

"  There's  just  as  much  as  you  might 
put  in  your  hand  and  blow  away,"  re- 
plied the  doctor,  who  was  a  man  of  quaint 
sayings,  and  knew  that  Major  Dawkes 
bore  no  blood  relationship  to  the  child- 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL. 


213 


u  The  only  hope  that  remains  lies  in  the 
elasticity  of  children ;  they  seem  ready 
to  be  shrouded  one  hour,  and  are  run- 
ning about  the  room  the  next.  We  can 
do  nothing  more  for  our  little  patient  ; 
and  if  he  does  rally,  it  will  be  owing  to 
this  elasticity,  this  tenacity  of  life  in  the 
young.     I  do  not  think  he  will." 

The  doctor  passed  out  at  the  hall-door, 
and  the  Major  turned  to  his  visitor. 

"  You  hear  what  he  says  ;  now  will, 
you  give  me  the  delay  ?  " 

"  Well — under  the  circumstances  — 
one  day  longer,"  replied  the  lawyer, 
whose  firm  would  prefer  their  money, 
even  to  the  exposure  of  the  Major.  Let 
them  once  get  clear  of  Major  Dawkes, 
and  he  might  swindle  all  the  bill-brokers 
in  London  afterwards  for  what  they 
cared.  He  stepped  across  the  hall 
towards  the  door,  and  the  Major  atten- 
ded him. 

"  But  if  the  child  should  not  die — if 
he  should  recover — what  then  ?  "  Mr. 
Rosse  suddenly  stopped  to  ask. 

The  Major's  heart  and  face  alike 
turned  sickly  at  the  supposition  ;  it  was 
one  he  dared  not  dwell  upon — literally 
dared  not. 

"There  is  no  'if  about  it;  he  is 
quite  sure  to  die.  When  I  was  up  with 
him- just  now,  he  looked  at  the  last  gasp ; 
the  nurse  thought  he  was  dead  then,  up 
to  the  knees.  I'll  drop  you  a  note  as 
soon  as  it's  over." 

Night  drew  on.  The  child  lay  in  the 
same  state — his  eyes  closed,  and  quite 
unconscious — battling  with  death.  The 
medical  men  came  and  went,  but  they 
could  render  no  assistance ;  and  it 
seemed  pretty  certain  that  no  morning 
would  dawn  for  little  Tom  Canterbury. 
Mrs.  Dawkes  would  sit  up  with  him,  in 
spite  of  her  husband's  remonstrances, 
who  told  her  that  the  incessant  fatigue 
and  watching  would  make  her  ill  again. 
He  went  to  rest  himself,  and  slept  sound- 
ly ;  for  his  troubles  seemed  at  an  end. 
The  sick-room,  as  may  be  remembered, 
was  near  his  own ;  and  Major  Dawkes 
was  suddenly  aroused  by  a  movement  in. 
it.  He  heard  the  nurse  come  out,  call 
to  Richard,  and  tell  him  to  run  for  the 
doctor.  The  man  had  been  kept  up  all 
night,  to  be  ready  if  wanted.  The 
Major  looked  at  his  watch — five  o'clock. 

"  It's  over  at  last,"  thought  he. 
"  What  a  mercy  !  I  did  not  think  he'd 
hold  out  so  long.     Ah,  they  may  send, 


but  doctors  cannot  bring  the  dead  to  life. 
And  now  1  am  a  free  man  again  ! " 

He  would  not  go  into  the  death-cham- 
ber; he  did  not  care  to  witness  death- 
scenes  ;  and  it  would  be  time  enough  to 
condole  with  Mrs.  Dawkes  bj'-and-bv. 
So  he  lay,  indulging  a  charming  vision 
of  the  golden  paradise  which  had  at 
length  opened  to  him,  which  was  partly 
imagination,  parti}7  a  semi-dream. 

The  return  of  Richard  disturbed  him. 
He  heard  the  latch-key  placed  in  the 
door,  and  the  man  came  up  the  stairs. 
Major  Dawkes  l-ose,  put  on  his  slippers, 
opened  his  door  an  inch  or  two,  and  ar- 
rested his  servant. 

"  You  have  been  round  to  the  doctor's, 
Richard  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  He'll  be  here  in  a  minute 
or  two. 

"There  was  no  necessity  to  disturb 
him,  only  that  it  may  be  more  satisfac- 
tory to  your  mistress.  The  child  is  dead, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Dead,  sir  !  no.  He  has  took  a  turn 
for  the  better." 

"  What  ?  "    gasped  Major  Dawkes. 

"  He  seems  to  have  took  a  turn,  sir, 
and  has  rallied  ;  and  that's  why  my  mis- 
tress sent  for  the  doctor." 

"  I — I — don't  understand,"  cried  the 
bewildered  Major. 

He  really  did  not.  So  intense  had 
been  the  conviction  of  the  child's  death, 
that  his  mind  was  unable  at  once  to 
admit  any  different  impression. 

"  When  the  doctor  was  here  the  last- 
thing,  sir,  he  thought  there  might  be  a 
change  in  the  night,  for  the  better  or  the 
worse.  If  it  was  for  the  better,  he  was 
to  be  sent  to,  he  said,"  explained  Rich- 
ard. 

"  And— it  is  for  the  better?" 

"  0  dear  yes,  sir,  happily.  Judith 
says  she's   sure  he  will  get  over  it  now." 

Major  Dawkes  withdrew  into  his  room, 
and  softly  closed  the  door.  He  felt  as 
though  the  death-blow,  which  was  to 
have  overtaken  the  child,  had  missed  its 
aim,  and  fallen  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"died  in  a  fit." 

A  "week  elapsed  ;  and  little  Tom  Can- 
terbury, owing  no  doubt,  to  the  "  elastic- 
ity," appeared  to  be  getting  well  rapidly. 


214 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


Mrs.  Dawkes,  heart  and  spirits  alike 
raised,  caring  not  even  for  folly  and 
fashion  in  comparison  with  her  darling 
child,  gave  orders  that  preparations 
should  he  made  for  removal  to  the  Eock. 
If  the  Major  was  unable  to  leave  Lon- 
don, he  could  remain  behind,  she  oblig- 
ingly told  him  ;  but  Tom  wanted  country 
air,  and  Tom  should  have  it. 

To  depart  for  the  Rock,  or  to  depart 
for  Kamtschatka,  would  have  seemed  all 
one  to  the  Major,  provided  either  place 
would  shield  him  and  his  reputation. 
Scarcely  once  during  this  last  week  had 
he  dared  to  show  himself  out  of  doors. 
His  time  had  been  chiefly  spent  in  writ- 
ing bulletins  of  little  Canterbury's  state 
to  sundry  people  interested,  every  one 
of  which  represented  the  child  as  "slowly 
going."  So  long  as  this  farce  could  be 
kept  up,  and  his  enemies  be  deceived 
into  believing  it,  he  felt  tolerabh'  safe. 
Tolerably  only  :  it  was  Major  Dawkes's 
misfortune  never  to  feel  quite  assured 
upon  the  point  at  any  moment,  night  or 
day.  But,  in  fact,  he  was  so.  With 
the  prospect  of  Tom  Canterbury's  thou- 
sands and  tens  of  thousands  slipping 
speedily  into  his  fingers,  to  be  squan- 
dered as  Major  Dawkes  knew  how  to 
squander,  people  considered  that  it  lay 
in  their  interests  not  to  proceed  to  ex- 
tremity with  him.  And  such  an  ex- 
tremity ! 

How  harshly  Fate  was  dealing  with 
him  in  thus  restoring  Tom  to  life,  Major 
Dawkes  felt  to  the  back-hone.  He 
looked  upon  it  as  a  grievous  wrong ;  an 
injury  done  him  :  in  the  perversion  of 
mind  caused  b}r  need,  he  had  come  to 
regard  the  fortune  as  his  by  right.  Did 
it  stand  to  any  reason  that  this  sickly 
infant  ought  to  keep  him  out  of  what 
would  put  him  straight  with  the  world, 
and  relieve  him  from  this  horrible  night- 
mare ?  Children  who  died  were  happi- 
er than  children  who  lived  :  little  Tom 
wanted  to  go  to  heaven  ;  he  was  saying 
so  continually  ;  and  heaven  could  not  be 
kind  when  it  thus  renewed  the  lease  of 
his  poor  frail  life  on  earth.  So  reasoned 
Major  Dawkes.  There  were  moments 
.  now  when  he  wished  he  had  died  in  his 
childhood,  before  worry  and  debt  had 
come  ;  and  in  pursuing  this  line  of  argu- 
ment he  was  honest  enough. 

But — what  was  he  to  do?  Tom  Can- 
terbury's recovery  could  not  be  kept  se- 


cret for  ever.  The  period,  when  it  must 
be  known,  was  looming  all  too  near  ;  ad- 
vancing close,  even  then,  to  his  threshold. 
And  it  was  bringing  with  it  an  abyss  of 
agony  and  shame,  than  which  to  Major 
Dawkes  nothing  could  be  more  terrible. 
It  seemed  that  he  must  forfeit  life,  rather 
than  meet  it. 

At  this,  the  week's  end,  the  medical 
men  pronounced  it  safe  for  Tom  to  travel : 
Mrs.  Dawkes  at  once  fixed  the  following 
morning  for  their  departure  ;  and  gave 
the  Major  that  obliging  permission  to  go 
or  stay  behind  mentioned  before.  Soon 
after  hearing  it,  Major  Dawkes  was  cross- 
ing the  hall,  when  a  knock  and  ring 
startled  him  ;  startled  him,  as  it  seemed, 
to  abject  terror.  His  first  impulse  was  to 
dart  into  the  nearest  room  and  bolt  him- 
self in  ;  his  next  to  dart  out  again  and 
seize  Richard's  arm,  who  was  coming 
along  to  open  the  door. 

"  Richard,"  he  whispered — and  the 
man  stood  amazed  at  the  wild  alarm 
mingled  with  entreaty,  in  his  master's 
aspect  and  accent — "  don't  open  the  door, 
for  your  life.  Go  into  the  area  and  see 
who  it  is.  If  it's  any  one  for  me,  say  I 
went  out  of  town  at  seven  this  morning, 
and  sha'nt  be  back  till — till  late  to-night. 
Swear  to  it,  man,  if  they  dispute  your 
word." 

Richard  descended  the  kitchen-stairs, 
and  his  master  strode  up  the  upper  ones, 
four  at  a  time,  stealthily,  silently,  like  a 
man  who  is  flying  from  danger.  Up  to 
the  second-floor  went  he,  as  if  the  higher 
he  went  the  more  secure  he  should  feel 
from  it.  Instead  of  entering  his  own 
room,  he  turned  into  the  one  opposite, 
the  day-nursery.  It  opened  into  the  lit- 
tle boy's  bed-chamber,  but  the  door  was 
closed  between  them. 

Judith  stood  at  the  round  table  by  the 
fire — which  Mrs.  Dawkes  thought  well  to 
have  lighted  daily,  though  summer 
weather  had  come  in.  She  was  measur- 
ing a  dessert-spoonful  of  mixture  from  a 
small  green  medicine-bottle.  Little  Tom 
Canterbury  was  by  her  side,  watching 
her. 

"  What's  this  ?  "  asked  Major  Dawkes, 
taking  up  the  bottle,  when  she  had  re- 
corked  it,  and  put  it  on  the  mantlepiece. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir ;  I  can't  read  writ- 
ing," replied  Judith,  thinking  the  Majoi 
meant  the  direction,  which  he  was  look- 
ing at.    If  he  had  meant  anything,  it  was 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


215 


probably  tbe  mixture  ;  but  he  bad  spok- 
en in  total  abstraction,  for  his  mind  was 
a  chaos  just  then. 

"  The  Mixture.  Master  Canterbury," 
were  the  words  written  there. 

"  Does  he  require  medicine  still  ?  "  ex- 
claimed Major  Dawkes.  "  I  thought  he 
was  well." 

"  It's  only  some  stuff  the  Doctor  sends 
to  comfort  bis  inside,  sir,  which  had  been 
out  of  order,"  replied  Judith.  "  He 
takes  a  spoonful  three  times  a  day: 
morning,  afternoon,  and  before  he  goes  to 
bed  at  night." 

Major  Dawkes  took  out  the  cork,  smelt 
the  mixture  and  tasted  it,  simply  by  way 
of  doing  something,  while  Tom  drank  up 
his  spoonful.  But,  as  Richard  was  heard 
coming  up  the  stairs,  the  Major  hastily 
returned  the  bottle  to  the  mantlepiece, 
and  went  out  to  meet  him. 

"  Was  I  wanted  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  The  gentleman  was  that 
one  who  never  gives  his  name  ;  and  I 
saw  two  men  standing  off,  as  if  they  be- 
longed to  him,"  added  Richard,  in  a  con- 
fidential tone.  "  They  are  a-waiting  op- 
posite now." 

"  You  said  I  was  out  of  town  ?  " 

"  I  told  hiin  I'd  take  a  oath  to  it,  sir, 
if  he  liked — as  you  desired  me.  And  he 
said  it  would  be  none  the  nearer  truth  if 
I  did." 

Major  Dawkes  wiped  bis  damp  brow 
and  turned  into  his  bedroom  ;  his  per- 
plexities were  growing  fast  and  thick. 
This  present  matter  was  one  of  simple 
debt ;  aud  simple  debt  would  have  been 
as  nothing  compared  to  the  other  thing 
he  dreaded.  Exposure  could  not  be  more 
than  a  day's  course  off  now. 

"  Agony,  disgrace,  punishment  !  " 
spoke  he  to  bis  own  soul,  as  he  glanced  to 
the  future.  "  The  abhorrence  and  con- 
tempt of  my  wife  ;  the  haughty  con- 
demnation of  my  brother-officers  ;  the 
cool  scorn  of  the  world ;  the  hulks  for  me  ! 
I  am  in  dread  danger  of  it  all ;  and  onty 
because  the  weak  thread  of  a  wretched 
child's  life  is  not  broken  !  Why  could  he 
not  have  died  ?  It  was  but  the  hesita- 
tion of  the  balance ;  a  turn  the  other 
way,  and — we  should  both  have  been  the 
better.  There  has  been  a  devil  abroad 
since  that  night,  ever  at  my  elbow,  whis- 
pering temptation. 

Even  so.  And  tbe  devil  bad  never 
3tood  closer  to  Major  Dawkes  than  in  this 


self-same  moment.  To  give  him  his  due, 
he  struggled  against  the  fiend  as  well  as 
he  knew  how. 

The  Major  did  not  go  out  that  day  ; 
he  did  not  dare  ;  what  was  to  become  of 
him  on  the  next — and  the  next — and  the 
next,  he  shuddered  to  contemplate.  He 
dined  at  home  with  his  wife  at  six  o'clock, 
in  her  dressing-room.  She  felt  very  un- 
well, and  had  been  lying  there  on  the 
sofa  all  the  afternoon. 

'•'It  is  the  fatigue  of  nursing  Tom," 
said  the  Major.  "  I  knew  it  would  bring 
its  reaction." 

"  It  is  nothing  of  the  sort,"  retorted 
Mrs.  Dawkes.  "  I  have  taken  a  violent 
cold,  or  else  caught  Tom's  complaint,  for 
my  chest  feels  sore.  Country  air  will  set 
both  me  and  Tom  to  rights.  We  start 
in  the  morning.  Do  you  intend  to  go 
with' us  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  think  I  can,"  replied  the 
miserable  Major. 

He  quitted  the  room  after  dinner;  and 
went  prowling  about  the  bouse  like  a 
restless  spirit,  not  venturing  to  go  out 
before  dusk.  Mrs.  Dawkes  lay  down  on 
the  sofa  again  and  rang  for  her  boy. 
Judith  brought  him,  and  her  mistress 
began  talking  about  the  arrangements 
for  the  morning. 

"  The  carriage  will  be  at  the  door  be- 
fore half-past  nine,  }tou  know,  "Judith." 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  I  shall  be  quite  ready. 
What  about  Master  Tom's  physic  ? " 
added  Judith.  "  Had  he  better  take  it 
in  the  morning,  ma'am  ? — there'll  be  just 
one  dose  left." 

"  No,  I  think  not.     To-night  he  must." 

"  0  yes,  I  shall  give  it  him  as  soon  as 
he  is  undressed,"  said  Judith,  "  and  thate 
won't  be  long  first:  it's  ever  so  much  af- 
ter seven.  I  think  he  had  better  come 
now,  ma'am,  that  he  may  have  a  good  long 
night's  rest. — Master  Tom,  won't  you  say 
good-night  to  your  mamma  ?  " 

Of  course  it  was  right  that  the  boy, 
still  so  weak  and  delicate,  should  have  a 
good  night's  rest  to  fortify  him  for  the 
morrow's  journey.  Mrs.  Dawkes  strained 
the  child  to  her ;  and  the  child's  little 
arms  strained  her.  It  was  a  long  and  close 
embrace,  and  he  cried  when  he  was  taken 
from  her  :  which  was  somewhat  remark- 
able, as  it  was  not  a  usual  thing  for  him 
to  do. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  darling !  We 
shall  both  get  well  at  the  Rock." 


21G 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


Mrs.  Dawkes,  left  alone,  drank  a  cnp 
of  tea  brought  by  her  maid,  Fry,  and 
then  went  into  her  bed-room  to  prepare 
for  rest.  She  was  irritable  and  impa- 
tient ;  so  much  so,  that  the  maid  asked 
whether  she  felt  worse. 

"  0,  I  don't  know  ! "  was  the  queru- 
lous' answer.  "  Since  I  drank  that  cup 
of  hot  tea,  my  tooth  has  begun  to  ache 
again.      It  is  enough  to  distract  me." 

"  I  would  have  it  out,  ma'am,  if  I 
were  you,"  cried  Fry.  "  It's  always 
a-distracting  of  you." 

"  Have  it  out !  have  a  tooth  out  at  my 
age  !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Dawkes,  "  I'd  rath- 
er suffer  martyrdom.  Be  quick  over  my 
hair,  and  don't  saj7  such  things  to  pro- 
voke me." 

So  Fry  went  on  with  her  duties,  and 
her  mistress  went  on  groaning,  and 
holding  one  side  of  her  face. 

"Perhaps,  ma'am,  if  you  were  to  put 
a  little  brandy  to  it,  it  might  ease  you," 
Fry  ventured  to  say  again.  "  Some 
cotton  steeped  in  brandy,  and  put  into 
the  tooth,  has  cured  man}7  a  toothache. 
Laudanum's  best,  but  I  suppose  there's 
none  in  the  house." 

"  It  would  do  me  no  good,"  fretfully 
answered  Mrs.  Dawkes. 

Fry  left  her  mistress  to  rest.  But 
there  was  no  sleep  for  Mrs.  Dawkes  ; 
the  pain  of  her  tooth  prevented  it.  She 
tossed  and  turned  from  side  to  side,  five 
minutes  seeming  to  her  like  an  hour. 

Now  it  happened  that  there  was  some 
laudanum  in  the  house ;  at  any  rate, 
some  preparation  of  opium,  though  the 
maid  bad  been  unconscious  of  it.  It 
had  been  brought  in  for  some  purpose 
several  weeks  before,  and  had  stood 
since  then  in  the  Major's  dressing-room. 
Mrs.  Dawkes,  in  a  moment  of  despera- 
tion, rose  from  her  bed,  resolved  to  try 
it.  Her  own  dressing-room  opened  on 
one  side  the  bed-chamber,  the  Major's 
on  the  other;  and  she  snatched  the 
night-light  which  was  burning — for  Fry 
had  closed  the  shutters  to  shut  out  all 
the  remains  of  daylight — and  went  into 
the  latter. 

It  was  a  very  small  place,  little  better 
than  a  closet,  and  had  no  egress  save 
through  the  bedchamber.  Her  own 
dressing-room  was  large,  and  had  two 
entrances.  Over  the  Major's  washhand- 
stand  was  a  narrow  slab  of  white  marble, 
and  on  that  had  stood  the  bottle  requir- 


ed by  Mrs.  Dawkes.  His  tooth-powder- 
box  and  shaving- tackle  usually  stood 
there  ;  but  since  he  had  occupied  the 
room  upstairs,  they  had  been  removed, 
with  various  other  things  pertaining  to 
him,  the  unused  laudanum-bottle  alone 
being  left. 

Mrs.  Dawkes  went  to  the  slab,  and 
stretched  forth  her  hand  to  take  the 
bottle.  Most  exceedingly  astonished 
was  she  to  find  that  no  bottle  was  there. 
The  slab  was  perfectly  empty. 

"  Why,  what  can  have  become  of 
it  ?  "  she  exclaimed  aloud.  "  The  bot- 
tle is  always  there  ;  I  saw  it  there  this 
very  day.  And  the  servants  do  not 
come  in  here  since  the  room  has  been 
unused." 

She  looked  about  with  the  light,  but 
could  see  nothing  of  it — the  shelves  and 
places  were  bare.  Exceedingly  cross, 
she  returned  to  her  bedroom,  steeped  a 
bit  of  cotton  -  wool  in  some  spirits  of 
camphor,  put  that  to  her  tooth,  and  lay 
down  again.  The  pain  subsided  at  once, 
and  she  was  dozing  off  to  sleep,  when 
some  one  came  cautiously  into  the  room 
from  the  passage  -  entrance.  Mrs. 
Dawkes  pulled  aside  the  curtain,  and 
saw  her  husband.     He  started  back. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  she  exclaimed." 

"  What  brings  you  in  bed  now  ?  " 
cried  the  Major,  looking  still  like  a  man 
startled. 

"  I  could  not  sit  up.  I  wish  you'd 
not  come  disturbing  me.  Is  it  late  or 
early  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  }ret  nine." 

He  went  into  his  dressing-room  as  he 
answered,  but  came  out  again  immedi- 
ately, and  sta}-ed  to  speak. 

"  Caroline,  I  am  going  down  to  Kage 
about  the  matter  we  talked  of  the  other 
day — to  see  if  he  won't  help  me.  He 
ought,  and  he  must." 

"  It  will  be  of  no  use." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  shall  try.  I  really 
want  help  very  badly.  Have  you  any 
message  for  him  ?  " 

"  None,"  she  answered  drowsily.  "  I 
don't  care  to  talk ;  it  may  set  my  tooth 
on  to  ache  again." 

"  Well,  good-night ;  but  I  am  sorry 
to  have  disturbed  you.  I  shall  see  you 
in  the  morning." 

The  Major  descended  the  stairs. 
Calling  up  Richard,  he  gave  him  sundry 
commissions  and  injunctions  ;  and  then 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


217 


went  out,  peering  into  the  dusk  to  see 
that  the  coast  was  clear.  Bolting  round 
the  corner  and  into  a  hansom,  he  order- 
ed the  driver  to  take  him  to  Mr.  Kage's 
house.  There  he  learnt  that  the  barris- 
ter was  not  expected  until  late,  and 
would  probably  be  found  at  his  cham- 
bers. The  hansom  dashed  down  to  the 
Temple. 

Mr.  Kage  was  at  work  late.  Rather 
surprised  was  he  to  see  his  visitor  ;  much 
more  surprised  to  hear  what  he  had 
come  for. 

Why,  what  amount  of  impudence 
must  the  man  possess,  thus  to  persist  in 
this  anno3rance  !  He  had  come  to  press 
for  that  loan  again  ;  and  sat  down  and 
did  it.  Mr.  Kage  may  be  forgiven  if 
he  answered  sharply. 

"  Thomas  Canterbury's  money !  " 
echoed  the  Major,  in  reply  to  some 
words.  "  You  speak  as  though  I  asked 
for  all  his  coffers,  and  the  Rock  into  the 
bargain.  I  only  wish  to  borrow  a  very 
trifling  portion  of  it — three  or  four 
thousand  pounds." 

"  The  sum,  more  or  less,  is  not  of  any 
consequence  ;  but  Mrs.  Dawkes  men- 
tioned twelve  thousand,"  spoke  Thomas 
Kage  stiffly. 

"  Mrs.  Dawkes  must  have  mistaken 
what  I  said  I  should  like  for  what  I 
said  I  wanted.  From  three  to  four 
thousand  pounds  will  *be  sufficient." 

"  Were  it  but  three  thousand  pence, 
it  would  be  all  the  same.  I  am  surpris- 
ed at  you,  Major  Dawkes.  Permit  me 
to  say  that  no  gentleman  would  persist 
in  these  applications,  in  the  teeth  of  my 
.refusal  and'its  reasons." 

"  I  shall  pay  you  back,  long  before 
little  Canterbury  is  of  age.  Kage,  my 
good  fellow,"  added  the  Major,  wiping 
the  perspiration  from  his  brow — and,  in- 
deed, he  had  done  little  else  since  enter- 
ing, for  he  seemed  full  of  agitation — 
"  consider  the  strait  I  am  in.  If  I  can't 
get  money,  and  don't  get  money,  there'll 
be  nothing  for  it  but — but — the  Insol- 
vent Court.  Mrs.  Dawkes  would  never 
hold  up  her  head  again." 

A  half- contemptuous  smile  crossed 
the  barrister's  lips.  He  peremptorily 
declined  further  appeal  on  the  subject. 

"  Were  the  money  my  own,  you 
should  have  had  it  before  now,"  said  he 
finally;  "  but  my  trusteeship  I  will 
hold  inviolate." 

"  Then  to-morrow  morning  I  must  see 


about  filing  my  petition,"  gloomily  re- 
sponded the  Major. 

"  Quite  the  best  thing  you  can  do," 
said  Mr.  Kage. 

''  Your  cousin,  Mrs.  Dawkes,  will 
have  j'ou  to  thank  for  it." 

No  reply  to  this.  The  Major  moved 
to  the  door  as  slow  as  a  bear.  Mr.  Kage 
took  the  lamp  to  light  him  downstairs. 

"  I  suppose  Tom  is  all  right  again — 
getting  stronger  daily  ?  "  he  observed, 
stretching  the  light  out  beyond  the  rail- 
ings. 

"0,  he  is  quite  well;  he  wants  noth- 
ing now  but  change  of  air.  His  mother 
takes  him  to  the  Rock  to-morrow. 
Good-night  to  you." 

The  Major  jumped  into  the  hansom 
that  had  waited  for  him,  and  was  driven 
off.  Having  been  immured  in-doors  for 
days,  he  thought  he  needed  some  in- 
demnifying recreation,  and  intended  to 
"  make  a  night  of  it." 

The  morning  dawned  brightly.  At 
seven  o'clock  Fry  was  in  her  mistress's 
room,  according  to  orders.  Mrs.  Dawkes 
did  not  like  getting  up  at  seven  any 
more  than  do  other  people  who  are  ac- 
customed to  lie  late  abed  ;  but  her  child's 
welfare  just  now  was  paramount,  and  she 
was  determined  the  journey  should  not 
be  deferred  through  delay  on  her  part, 
or  on  that  of  the  household.  She  was 
gracious  this  morning,  telling  Fry  that 
her  toothache  was  gone  and  that  she  felt 
stronger  altogether. 

"  Now,  Fry,  is  everything  ready  ?  " 
she  asked,  while  she  dressed. 

"  Quite  ready,  emphatically  responded 
Fry;  "leastways  all  that  lies  in  my  de- 
partment to  get  ready.  I  am  only  too 
glad  to  be  off  to  Chilling  myself,  ma'am. 
It  seems  an  age  since  I  saw  my  relations 
there.  I'd  like  to  see  my  poor  old  mis- 
tress, too." 

Did  Caroline  Dawkes  take  that  last 
sentence  as  a  reproach  to  herself?  It 
was  not  meant  as  such.  She  rejoined, 
rather  peevishhy, 

"  In  the  sad  state  poor  mamma  lies,  it 
is  so  very  distressing  to  see  her,  you 
know,  Fry.  I'm  sure  I  did  not  get  over 
the  pain  for  days,  when  I  left  her  last. 
It  is  not  good  for  her  to  see  me,  either. 
It  excites  her;  the  doctor  says  so." 

"  Very  true,  ma'am,"  acquiesced  Fry. 

"  Is  the  Major  going  with  us  or  not, 
do  you  know  ?  "  resumed  Mrs.  Dawkes. 

;'  I  fancy  not,  ma'am.     I  don't  think 


218 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


Richard  has  got  any  orders  about  pack- 
ing." 

"  That  tells  nothing.     A  gentleman's 
things  can  be  put  together  in  five  min- 
utes.    The  Major  must  be  called,  Fry." 
"  The   Major  did  not  sleep  at  home, 
ma'am." 

"  Not  sleep  at  home  !  " 
"And  he  is  not  come  in  yet,"  added 
Fry,  who  was  no  particular  friend  to  the 
Major,  and  had  not  the  least  objection  to 
put  in  a  word  against  him  if  opportunity 
offered. 

"  How  do  you  know  he  did  not  sleep 
at  home  ?  " 

"  Because,  ma'am,  his  room  is  just  in 
the  state  it  was  last  night  when  the 
housemaid  left  it  ready  for  him,  with  the 
door  stark  staring  open." 

Mrs.  Dawkes,  albeit  caring  very  little 
for  the  Major,  was  no  better  pleased  than 
are  other  wives  when  told  their  husbands 
have  not  slept  at  home,  and  continued  to 
dress  in  silence.  Presently  she  sent  Fry 
to  see  whether  the  nurse  was  getting  up. 
Certain  though  she  felt  of  the  fact,  it 
was  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  and 
ascertain  it.  Judith  had  passed  many 
nights  of  late  in  watching,  and  sleep 
might  be  reasserting  its  claims.  While 
Fry  was  absent,  she  threw  a  warm  wrap- 
per over  her  petticoats,  and  went  into  the 
Major's  dressing-room  to  ring  the  bell 
there,  knowing  that  it  would  bring  up 
Richard.  An  unexpected  object  met  her 
eyes. 

Great  as  had  been  Mrs.  Dawkes's  sur- 
prise the  previous  night  to  find  the  laud- 
anum-bottle absent  from  the  slab,  far,  far 
greater  was  her  jiresent  surprise  to  see  it 
in  the  exact  place  it  had  always  occupied, 
as  if  it  had  never  been  touched.  Mrs. 
Dawkes  mechanically  took  it  in  her 
hand :  it  was  the  veritable  bottle,  label- 
ed as  usual,  "  Tincture  of  opium.  Ma- 
jor Dawkes." 

Had  she  only  dreamt  that  she  came  to 
look  for  it  ? — the  question  really  occur- 
red to  her.  None  of  the  servants  had 
been  through  her  room  in  the  night.  But 
on  her  own  dressing-table  lay  the  cotton 
and  the  phial  of  camphorated  spirit,  to 
prove  that  it  was  no  dream. 

"  Judith  has  been  up  ever  so  long, 
ma'am,  and  she's  soon  going  to  dress 
Master  Tom,"  said  Fr}r,  coming  back. 
"  There's  Richard  standing  outside,  say- 
ing the  Major's  bell  rang.  I  tell  him 
his  ears  must  have  heard  double." 


Mrs.  Dawkes  went  to  the  door.  What 
she  wanted  with  Richard  was.  to  ask 
whether  his  master  had  said  where  he 
was  going.  Richard  replied  in  the  neg- 
ative :  he  had  supposed  his  master  was 
coming  home  to  sleep  as  usual.  Mrs. 
Dawkes  went  back  to  her  dressing-table, 
and  sat  down  for  Fry  to  be^in  her  ha;r. 

Directly  afterwards  the  Major  came  in, 
laughing  gaily.  He  seemed  determined 
to  put  a  light  face  on  the  absence.  His 
wife  kept  her  head  fixed  under  Fry's 
hands,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor 
the  left,  not  condescending  to  notice  him 
in  any  way  whatsoever. 

"Did  you  think  I  had  taken  flight, 
Caroline  ?  After  leaving  Kage,  I  went 
up  to  Briscoe's  rooms.  We  got  to  cards  ; 
and,  upon  my  word,  the  time  passed  so 
unconsciously,  and  it  grew  so  late,  that 
he  gave  me  a  bed.  I  feared  I  might 
disturb  you,  coming  in  between  two  and 
three  o'clock." 

Caroline  did  not  see  the  point  of  the 
speech.  All  an  excuse,  thought  she. 
Three  o'clock  was  no  absolutely  unusual 
hour  for  the  Major  to  come  in ;  and  as 
for  disturbing  her,  it  was  not  her  room 
he  had  to  come  to. 

"  Very  accommodating  of  Captain 
Briscoe  to  keep  beds  ready  made-up  for 
his  friends,"  she  coldly  remarked. 

"And  that  was  a  sofa,"  laughed  the 
Major.  "  You  will  have  a  splendid  day 
for  your  journey.  The  wind  is  in  its 
softest  quarter  for  Tom." 

"  You  don't  go  with  us,  then  ?  " 
"  I  wish  I  could.     I  daresay  I  shall 
follow  you  within  the  week." 

"  O,  do  you  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Dawkes,  her 
temper  a  little  ruffled.  "  Just  as  you 
please." 

Major  Dawkes  stood  for  a  moment, 
watching  the  process  of  hair-dressing. 
Caroline  fancied  he  must  want  some- 
thing, but  would  not  ask. 

"  What  of  Mr.  Kage  ?  Did  you  see 
him?" 

"  I  saw  him.  Had  to  go  down  to  his 
chambers.  He  is  a  regular  rat,  Caro- 
line ;  he  will  do  nothing." 

"  I  told  you  he  would  not,"  she  grave- 
ly rejoined  ;  "  and  he  is  quite  right  not 
to  do  it.  As  to  a  rat — if  all  people  were 
as  little  like  one,  the  world  might  be 
more  comfortable." 

"  Is  that  a  slash  at  me  ?  "  asked  Ma- 
jor Dawkes,  smiling  gaily,  and  seeming 
fully  determined  not  to  be  put  out.     "I 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


219 


and  Kage  never  could  hit  it  off  well  to- 
gether, you  know,  Caroline  ;  therefore  it 
was  hardly  likely  he  would  go  out  of  his 
way  to  do  me  a  service.  Perhaps  I  may 
get  what  I  want  through  Briscoe. 
He—" 

"  Whatever  is  the  matter?  " 

The  interruption  came  from  Fry,  who 
at  that  moment  was  facing  the  door. 
The  nurse,  Judith,  had  stolen  quietly  in- 
side the  room,  and  was  standing  there 
with  clasped  hands,  and  face  wild  and 
white.  Major  and  Mrs.  Dawkes  turned 
round. 

"  What  do  you  want,  Judith  ?  "  in- 
quired her  mistress. 

"  I  got  up  at  six,  ma'am,"  hegan  Ju- 
dith, "  and  when  I  had  dressed  myself,  I 
put  up  the  things  I  had  left  last  night, 
thinking  I'd  let  the  child  sleep  as  long 
as  I  could.  I  said  to  myself,  what  a  long 
night's  rest  he  was  having  ;  what  a 
beautiftil  sleep  !  And  I — I  went  to  take 
him  up  now;  and  I — sir — ma'am — I  can't 
awaken  him." 

She  had  spoken  just  as  she  looked,  in 
a  wild,  bewildered  sort  of  manner ;  and 
she  appeard  to  shake  all  over. 

"  If  is  the  remains  of  his  illness,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Dawkes  ;  but  she  gazed 
hard  at  Judith,  thinking  her  manner, 
and  her  coming  at  all,  very  strange. 
"  Children  are  sure  to  sleep  well  after  an 
illness.  Take  him  gently  up  ;  he  will 
awake  as  3rou  dress  him." 

"But  I  can't  take  him  up,  ma'am," 
returned  the  trembling  Judith.  "  He — 
he — won't  awake." 

Fry  stared  at  her  with  open  mouth,  in 
private  persuasion  that  she  had  lost  her 
senses. 

"  Will  you  please  to  come  and  see, 
sir  ? "  added  Judith,  addressing  her 
master. 

"  Nonsense,  Judith  girl  ;  why  should 
I  come  ?  "  demanded  the  Major.  "  Sure- 
ly }tou  don't  want  my  help  to  arouse  a 
sleeping  child  !  Take  him  up  yourself, 
as  your  mistress  says.  Splash  a  handful 
of  cold  water  in  his  face  ;  that  will  wake 
him  soon  enough." 

"  Oh  sir,  come  !  "  pleaded  Judith. 
"  Please  come. — Not  you,  ma'am." 

The  Major  quitted  the  room  in  answer 
to  the  appeal.  No  sooner  had  he  got 
out  than  Judith,  shutting  the  door, 
seized  upon  his  arm,  and  spoke  in  a  whis- 
per : 


"Sir,  I  think  he's  dead." 

"What?"  retorted  the  Major,  as  if 
angry  at  her  folly. 

"  It  is  so,  sir,  if  ever  I  saw  death  yet. 
I  did  not  dare '  to  speak  before  my  mis- 
tress.    He  is  stiff  and  cold." 

Major  Dawkes  pushed  her  aside  with 
his  elbow,  and  ascended  the  stairs,  Ju- 
dith at  his  heels.  There  was  a  noise  be- 
hind, and  they  turned  to  look  :  Mrs. 
Dawkes  and  Fry  were  following  them 
up. 

"  She  had  better  not  come  in,  sir," 
whispered  Judith.  "  It  may  be  too  much 
for  her." 

The  Major  went  back  to  stop  his  wife. 
Judith  stood  at  the  room  door.  It  was 
of  no  use.  Caroline  broke  away  from  the 
detaining  hand,  and  went  resolutely  on- 
wards. 

Thomas  Canterbury  was  lying  in  his 
little  bed,  shaded  by  the  purple-silk 
hangings,  cold,  white — and  dead.  The 
shell,  with  the  angels  carrying  the  child 
to  heaven,  was  clasped  in  his  hand.  The 
angels  had  been  down  now  to  carry  him. 

"  He  must  have  died  in  a  fit,"  cried 
Fry. 

And  Mrs.  Dawkes  fell  across  the  bed 
with  a  low  cry  of  piteous  anguish. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

ENSHROUDED    IN    MYSTERY. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  as  brilliant 
a  day  as  London  can  produce,  when  the 
spring  is  merging  into  summer,  Thomas 
Kage,  in  his  professional  costume,  might 
have  been  seen  ascending  to  his  cham- 
bers in  the  Temple  with  the  fleet  steps 
of  one  who  runs  a  race  against  time. 

And  Mr.  Kage  was  doing  little  less. 
He  had  a  vast  amount  of  business  on 
his  shoulders  just  now,  legal  and  private. 
Only  the  past  night  Major  Dawkes  (as 
we  saw  in  the  last  chapter)  found  him 
late  at  his  chambers,  hard  at  work. 
This  evening  he  would  have  to  quit 
London  on  some  private  matters  con- 
nected with  his  friend  Lord  Hartledon, 
and  to  be  away  for  some  three  or  four 
days. 

Dashing  off  his  wig  and  gown,  he  was 
about  to  settle  down  to  his  table,  and  go 
over  certain  papers,  there  waiting  for  an 


220 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


opinion,  when  Lis  clerk,  Mr.  Taylor — for 
he  could  afford  one  now — accosted  him. 

"  One  of  Major  Dawkes's  servants 
has  been  here,  sir,  to  ask  if  you  would 
go  up  there  as  quickly  as  you  could. 
Mrs.  Dawkes — " 

"  But  I  can't,"  interrupted  Mr.  Kage. 
"  With  what  I  have  yet  to  do  to-day,  it 
is  not  possible.     Did  }-ou  say  so  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I  said  I  would  give  you 
the  message.  I  told  him  you  were  busy. 
The  little  boy  is  dead  I" 

"  What  little  boy  ?  » 

"  Mrs.  Dawkes's,  sir — little  Canter- 
bury." 

Thomas  Kage's  hands  ceased  rattling 
the  parchments.  He  looked  up  as  one 
who  believes  not. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  He  is  dead,  sir,  sure  enough,  and  all 
that  pot  of  money  lapses.  He  died  in 
the  night." 

"But  what  did  he  die  of?  What 
was  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  The  man  couldn't  say.  It  was  that 
Richard  who  has  brought  notes  here 
once  or  twice." 

"  The  boy  was  well  again,"  reiterated 
Mr.  Kage,  feeling  utterly  bewildered. 
"  Dawkes  said  so  when  he  was  here  last 
night ;  besides,  1  know  it." 

"  What  the  man  said  was,  that  the 
nurse  found  him  dead  in  his  bed  this 
morning,"  pursued  Mr.  Taylor.  "  Mrs. 
Dawkes  was  in  a  very  terrible  state,  and 
her  maid  sent  him  to  ask  you  to  go  up." 

A  rapid  argument  in  his  own  mind, 
whether  he  might  venture  to  put  off  his 
journey  until  the  morrow,  and  sit  up 
that  night  to  complete  his  work,  was  de- 
cided in  the  affirmative.  At  almost  any 
cost  he  would  go  to  his  cousin  in  her 
sore  need.  But  he  could  really  do  it  by 
taking  the  first  train  in  the  morning. 

"  I  shall  want  you  to  stay  late  to- 
night, Mr.  Taylor." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

He  went  up  to  Belgravia  as  fast  as  a 
cab  could  take  him,  and  was  shown  at 
once  into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Dawkes. 
Her  state  was  pitiable  to  witness.  Just 
as  she  had  been  when  the  alarm  came, 
and  she  had  run  to  the  child's  room, 
so  she  was  still — a  loose  robe  on,  and 
her  hair  hanging  down.  She  had  re- 
mained since  in  the  very  extremity  of 
anguish — now  in  a  semi-fainting  state  ; 
now  rushing  to  the  death-room  and  call- 


ing on  her  child  to  live — to  live  !  In 
short,  she.  was  frantic.  Could  she  but 
have  wept — could  she  but  have  fallen 
into  a  real  faint,  and  so  have  induced 
weakness — it  had  been  better  for  her. 
Fry  said  all  this  to  Mr.  Kage  in  a  few 
rapid  sentences,  as  she  stood  with  her 
hand  on  the  door-handle. 

"  I  can  scarcely  believe  it  to  be  true, 
Fry,  that  the  child  is  dead,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

'•'  And  that's  like  us,  sir.  We  cannot 
believe  it  now." 

"  But  what  was  it  ?  " 

"  0,  it  must  have  been  a  sudden  fit, 
sir.  There's  nothing  else  that  I  know 
of  could  kill  a  child  in  his  sleep." 

With  a  kind  of  choking  cry,  some- 
thing like  that  you  may  hear  from  one 
in  an  attack  of  epilepsy,  Mrs.  Dawkes 
sprang  forward  when  she  saw  Mr.  Kage, 
and  flung  herself  into  his  arms.  The 
sight  of  him  brought  the  reaction  that 
had  been  wanted  ;  and  she  began  to  sob 
frightfully,  piteously  imploring  Thomas 
Kage  to  bring  him  —  her  lamb,  her 
angel-boy,  her  all — back  to  life.  With 
difficulty  could  he  unwind  her  arms  ; 
with  difficulty  attempt  a  word  of  con- 
solation. He  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  her.  Fry,  hearing  the  sobs  of 
emotion,  came  in.  Mr.  Kage  sent  her 
for  water  and  other  restoratives.  Where 
was  the  Major  ?  he  mentally  wondered 
in  deep  anger.  Surely  his  proper  place 
was  by  his  wife's  side  at  such  an  hour  as> 
this  ! 

Major  Dawkes  had  gone  out  to  see, 
as  was  understood  by  Fry,  about  some 
necessary  arrangements. 

"  I  don't  care  now  how  soon  I  die 
myself,  Thomas,"  exclaimed  the  poor 
mother,  at  the  end  of  a  prolonged  and 
exhaustive  fit  of  violent  sobbing. 

"  Hush,  Caroline  !  May  God  temper 
the  trial  to  you ! "  he  added  more  as  a 
prayer  than  in  answer. 

The  next  to  come  in,  with  a  whiter 
face  than  usual,  as  if  stricken  to  fear, 
and  words  of  condolence  that  seemed 
genuine  enough  on  her  lips,  was  Keziah 
Dawkes.  Keziah  had  heard  the  news 
by  pure  accident.  Happening  to  meet 
one  of  the  servants  in  the  street,  she 
stopped  him  to  inquire  after  the  health 
of  the  house,  and  learnt  what  had  taken 
place.  Caroline  was  lying  on  the 
sofa  then,  in  another  of  the  semi-faint- 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


221 


ing  fits,  utterly  exhausted.  Fry,  kneel- 
ing by  her  side,  strove  to  put  teaspoon- 
fuls  of  weak  brandy-and-water  within 
her  lips.  Mr.  Kage  took  the  opportu- 
nity to  slip  away  in  search  of  Judith. 

He  found  her  in  the  day-nursery ; 
her  hands  lying  idle  on  her  knees,  the 
tears  slowly  coursing  down  her  face. 
She  stood  up  when  he  entered,  and 
strove  to  dry  them. 

"  What  has  the  child  died  of,  Ju- 
dith ?  » 

"  Sir,  I  know  no  more  than  the  dead — 
no  more  than  he  does,  pretty  pale  lamb- 
kin. Fry  insists  upon  it  that  it  must 
have  been  a  fit ;  but  I  don't  believe  it. 
He  never  had  a  fit  in  his  life ;  and  it 
stands  to  reason,  that  if  he'd  had  one  last 
night  I  must  have  heard  him.  The  least 
noise  awakes  me.  Since  his  illness  he 
couldn't  move  in  his  little  bed  but  I  start- 
ed up.  All  last  night  I  never  heard  him 
stir,  never  once,  and  I  was  awake  twice 
myself.  This  morning,  when  I  got  up, 
he  was  still  sleeping,  as  I  supposed,  and 
I  went  on  putting  things  ready  for  the 
journey." 

"  You  did  not  discover  it  immediately, 
then  ?  " 

"No,  sir.  I  thought  I'd  let  him  lie 
as  long  as  I  could,  for  he  had  seemed 
dead  asleep  last  night.  I'd  hardly  laid 
him  down  in  his  bed,  before  he  was  off. 
I  might  have  let  him  lie  longer  too,  but 
for  Fry's  coming  up  with  a  message 
from  my  mistress,  that  we  was  both  to 
be  ready  without  delay.  I  finished  what 
I  was  about,  and  then  went  to  his  bed- 
side. '  Master  Tom,'  says  I,  '  it's  time 
to  get  up  ;  and  your  mamma's  astir  al- 
ready, and  the  morning's  beautiful.' 
But  he  never  answered.  '  Wake  up,  my 
darling,'  says  I  then,  and  put  the  bed- 
clothes down.  Sir,  you  might  almost  as 
well  have  killed  me  :  there  he  lay  dead  ! " 

"  What  did  the  doctor  say  ?  " 

"  The  first  thing  he  said  after  seeing 
that  the  child  was  really  dead,  was  to 
ask  what  I'd  been  giving  to  him  ;  he 
asked  it  sharply  too,  as  if  I  should  give 
him  anything  that  could  hurt !  " 

She  proceeded  to  recount  the  few  facts 
connected  with  the  last  days  of  the 
child's  life,  Mr.  Kage  listening.  He 
had  eaten  his  meals  well  ;  the  last  thing 
he  took  having  been  a  basin  of  bread- 
and-milk  for  his  tea.  Judith  had  seen 
him  take  them  all — having,  in  fact,  taken 


her  own  meals  with  him  ;  and  not  for 
a  minute  the  previous  day  had  the  boy 
been  out  of  her  sight. 

"  There's  the  last  thing  I  gave  him," 
she  sobbed,  pointing  to  the  medicine- 
bottle  on  the  mantel-piece.  "He  sat  on 
my  lap  after  he  was  undressed,  and  took 
it  as  good  as  gold.  I  little  thought  I 
should  never  give  him  anything  again." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Kage. 

Judith  explained.  It  was  a  bottle  of 
mixture  sent  by  the  doctor,  a  dessert- 
spoonful of  which  the  child  had  been 
taking  three  times  a-day.  Mr.  Kage 
took  the  bottle  in  his  hand,  examined  it, 
and  read  the  label,  "  The  mixture.  Mas- 
ter Canterbury." 

"  He  had  took  it  every  drop  but  that 
one  dose  that's  left ;  and  a  great  deal  of 
good  it  had  done  him,"  said  Judith,  in 
her  deep  sorrow,  as  Mr.  Kage  returned 
the  bottle  to  the  mantel-piece.  "  0  me  ! 
there's  moments,  sir,  when  I  think  it 
can't  be  nothing  but  a  dream." 

In  truth,  it  seemed  quite  like  one  to 
Thomas  Kage. 

"  Will  you  see  him,  sir  ?  " 

He  nodded  assent ;  and  Judith,  un- 
locking the  door  of  the  next  room,  stood 
aside  for  him  to  pass.  Many  a  time  and 
oft  had  Mr.  Kage  gone  in  to  be  greeted 
with  the  loving  words  of  the  gentle 
child. 

At  rest  now  ;  an  angel  in  the  heaven 
where  he  had  so  often  wished  to  be. 

"  You  have  been  up  to  see  him !  " 
cried  Mrs.  Dawkes,  almost  passionately, 
when  Mr.  Kage  returned  to  her.  "  Why 
did  you  not  tell  me  ?  I'd  have  gone 
with  you.     I  wanted  to  go  !  " 

It  seemed  that  some  of  the  old  excite- 
ment was  coming  on  again  ;  he  laid  his 
restraining  hand  on  hers  to  enjoin  calm- 
ness. Keziah  Dawkes,  sitting  at  the 
curtained  windows  with  her  bonnet- 
strings  untied,  looked  gray  as  before. 
Mrs.  Dawkes  had  not  invited  her  to  take 
the  bonnet  off.  This  death  would  bring 
no  end  of  good  to  her  beloved  brother 
Barby,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  be  mak- 
ing a  festival  of  it.  Caroline  moaned 
faintly  again  and  again,  and  let  her  fin- 
gers entwine  themselves  within  those 
strong  ones,  in  which  there  felt  to  be  at 
least  protection. 

"  What  did  he  die  of,  Thomas — what 
did  he  die  of?  " 


222 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


"  In  truth  I  see  nothing  that  he  can 
have  died  of,  except  God's  visitation,'" 
was  his  honest  answer.  "  No  harm 
seems  to  have  come  to  him  in  any  shape 
or  form,  to  account  for  the  death." 

"  And  we  were  to  have  gone  to  the 
Rock  to-day,  he  and  I !  By  this  time 
we  should  have  been  there." 

"  Try  and  realise  one  thing,  Caroline, 
— that  he  is  now  in  perfect  happiness; 
and  let  it  comfort  3Tou." 

"  Comfort !  for  me  !  "  she  rejoined, 
opening  her  eyes  on  him  for  a  moment. 
"  Never  again  in  this  life  ! " 

And  poor  Caroline  Dawkes  turned  her 
face  down  upon  the  sofa-cushion,  to  moan 
out  the  anguish  that  seemed  as  if  it  must 
kill  her  there  and  then. 

The  dusk  of  evening  had  come  on  be- 
fore Mr.  Kage  went  down  to  take  his  de- 
parture. He  encountered  Major  Dawkes 
in  the  hall,  who  was  then  entering. 
They  turned  together  into  the  Major's 
study. 

"  This  is  a  very  strange  and  sad 
event,"  observed  Thomas  Kage. 

"  It  is  the  strangest  thing  that  ever 
happened  in  this  world,"  returned  the 
Major;  "and  the  saddest  too — for  my 
wife's  sake." 

"  You  can  throw  no  light  upon  it,  I 
suppose  ;  or  conjecture  what  can  have 
been  the  cause  of  death  ?  " 

"  I.  I  am  the  least  likely  to  of  any- 
body," spoke  the  Major,  with  volubility. 
"  I  never  saw  the  child  but  once  yester- 
day, so  far  as  I  can  remember ;  and  I 
have  been  taxing  my  memory  over  it. 
That  was  in  the  morning.  He  went  out 
with  Judith,  I  hear,  in  the  carriage  in 
the  afternoon  ;  but  I  know  nothing  about 
it  personally.  I  was  shut  up  in  my  study 
the  best  part  of  the  day,  writing  letters 
and  going  over  ac " 

A  movement  of  Mr.  Kage's  caused 
the  Major  to  stop.  Looking  quickly  be- 
hind him  he  saw  the  gray  face  of  his  sis- 
ter. And  it  certainly  wore  a  scared  ex- 
pression— an  expression  that  she  seemed 
unable  to  keep  under.  A  hasty  greet- 
ing— which  the  Major  never  looked  in 
her  face  to  give — and  he  went  on  with 
what  he  had  been  saying. 

"  I  am  telling  Kage  that  I  never  saw 
the  boy  but  once  yesterday,  Keziah  ; 
never  saw  him  at  all,  in  fact,  after  the 
morning.  It  is  most  unfortunate.  Not 
that    m\'  seeing  him  could  have  shown 


me  what  was  to  happen,  or  prevented  it. 
As  ill-luck,  had  it,  too,  I  did  not  sleep  at 
home  last  night." 

A  slight  movement  of  surprise  in  Mr. 
Kage's  eyes.     No  other  answer. 

"  Of  course  I'd  give  a  good  deal  not  to 
have  been  out  last  night.  I've  not  done 
it  for  ages.  Things  are  sure  to  happen 
crossly.  After  leaving  your  chambers, 
Kage,  I  went  up  to  Briscoe's.  We  sat 
late  at  cards,  and  he  gave  me  a  bed.  My 
wife  had  seemed  very  poorly  when  I  left 
her,  and  I  did  not  care  to  go  home  when 
it  got  so  late,  lest  she  should  hear  me 
and  be  disturbed.  I  came  round  betimes 
this  morning,  knowing  of  the  day's  jour- 
ney ;  and  before  I  had  been  five  min- 
utes in  the  house,  the  alarm  took  place. 
When  Judith  came  in,  saying  something 
was  the  matter  with  the  child,  and  then 
called  me  out  to  whisper  he  was  dead,  I 
thought  she  must  be  saying  it  for  a 
farce." 

Keziah  Dawkes  drew  a  long  deep 
breath,  as  if  of  relief.  "  0,  Barnaby 
dear  !  and  have  you  no  idea  of  the  cause 
of  death  ?  " 

"  What  I  think  is  this.  •  That  the 
child's  late  illness,  or  something  connect- 
ed with  it,  must  have  been  the  cause  ; 
and  that  the  doctors  were  mistaken  in 
supposing  he  had  recovered." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  it  must  have  been  so," 
sighed  Keziah. 

"  Possibly  so,"  admitted  Mr.  Kage, 
speaking  slowly.  "  There  seems  to  be 
no  other  way  of  accounting  for  it.  I 
fear  it  will  have  a  sad  effect  on  Mrs. 
Dawkes." 

"  For  a  time,"  said  the  Major,  show- 
ing a  long  face.  "  But  she'll  get  over 
it  after  a  bit ;  she'll  get  over  it.  Other 
mothers  do." 

A  coroner's  inquest  would  have  to  be 
held  on  the  child  :  very  much  to  the  re- 
sentment of  Major  and  Mrs.  Dawkes. 
More  to  that  of  the  former,  however, 
than  of  the  latter.  But  for  his  enlarg- 
ing in  his  wife's  presence  on  the  degra- 
dation of  Tom's  being  "  inquested,"  as 
though  he  were  a  common  pauper's 
child,  she  would  never  have  thought  of 
it,  one  way  or  the  other.  Major  Dawkes's 
resentment,  however,  could  not  stop  the 
law's  demands  ;  and  an  inquest  was  fix- 
ed for  the  Thursday  afternoon,  the  child 
having  been  found  dead  on  the  AYednes- 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


223 


day.  Earl}'  on  Thursday  morning  the 
doctors  made  the  post-mortem  examina- 
tion ;  and  they  came  to  the  astounding 
conclusion  that  the  child  had  died  from 
some  narcotic  poison,  say  opium  —  an 
overdose  of  opium. 

The  first  frantic  violence  of  Mrs. 
Dawkes's  grief  had  spent  itself,  and  on 
this  morning,  Thursday,  she  was  tolera- 
bly calm — calm,  save  for  a  restless  ner- 
vousness, that  prevented  her  from  be- 
ing still.  Her  medical  attendants  recom- 
mended her  to  remain  in  bed  ;  but  Mrs. 
Dawkes  paid  no  heed  to  them,  and  by 
ten  o'clock  she  was  up,  and  in  her  dress- 
ing-room, which  was,  in  fact,  a  kind  of 
boudoir. 

Here  she  sat,  the  breakfast-tray  before 
her,  making  believe  to  sip  her  tea,  and 
to  bite  small  morsels  of  the  thin  toast. 
Major  Dawkes  had  breakfasted  below  as 
usual,  and  was  just  now  closeted  in  the 
dining-room  with  the  two  doctors  who 
had  been  making  the  examination.  On 
coming  from  the  room  above,  they  had 
requested  to  see  him,  and  were  shown  to 
him  in  the  dining-room.  Major  Dawkes 
was  not  holding  the  doctors  in  much  fa- 
vor just  now,  for  they  were  at  the  root 
of  this,  to  him,  offensive  proceeding,  the 
calling  of  the  inquest.  In  the  absence 
of  all  certainty  as  to  the  cause  of  death, 
thej'  had  declined  to  give  the  requisite 
certificate. 

Never  for  a  moment,  save  during  the 
intervals  when  she  slept  the  sleep  of  ex- 
haustion, was  her  child's  image  absent 
from  Mrs.  Dawkes's  mental  sight,  or  its 
memory  from  her  heart.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  Heaven  had  been  bitterly  un- 
kind ;  and  the  more  she  told  herself  it 
was  wrong  to  think  so,  the  more  she 
thought  it. 

"  Only  two  days  ago,  and  he  was  with 
me  in  this  very  room,"  she  moaned ; 
"prattling  to  me  while  I  ate  my  break- 
fast. I  divided  a  bit  of  my  toast  be- 
tween us,  him  and  me.  Judith,  stand- 
ing by,  said  hot  buttered  toast  was  not 
good  for  him.     0,  my  boy,  my  boy  !  " 

Fry  came  in  with  an  expression  of 
face  that  attracted  even  the  attention  of 
her  desolate  mistress.  It  was  a  mixture 
of  intense  surprise,  of  puzzled  curiosity, 
and  of  mortification. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Dawkes. 

The  matter  was  this.  The  doctors, 
requiring  to  ask  two  or  three  questions 


in  the  conclusion  they  had  come  to  re 
garding  the  death  of  the  child,  had  chos- 
en to  put  them  to  Fry,  knowing  she  was 
in  a  degree  a  confidential  servant,  and 
had  caused  her  to  be  called  in.  There 
Fry  learnt — but  she  was  the  only  one  in 
the  household  to  whom  it  was  suffered 
to  transpire — that  the  death  was  the  re- 
sult of  opium.  The  declaration  dis- 
pleased Fry  beyond  everything  :  she  had 
formed  her  opinion  that  the  child  had 
died  m  a  fit,  and  would  not  part  with  it 
easily. 

"  It  s  nice  thing  they  are  saying  now, 
ma'am,"  replied  Fry  in  answer  to  her 
mistress,  closing  the  door  softly  and 
speaking  in  a  covert  tone.  "  It  wouldn't 
be  doctors  if  they  didn't  have  some 
crotchet  to  invent.  What  he  died  of, 
sweet  child,  was  a  fit,  and  nothing  else." 
Mrs.  Dawkes  paused  in  some  sur- 
prise. "Why,  what  do  they  say  it  was, 
then  ?  " 

"They  say  he  was  poisoned,  ma'am. 
Leastwaj's  that  he  took  something  that 
was  as  good  as  poison ;  senseless  idi- 
ots !  " 

"  They — say — he — was  —  poisoned  !" 
echoed  Mrs.  Dawkes,  leaning  forward  in 
her  chair  with  dilating  eyes.  "  Take 
care  what  you  assert,  Fry." 

"  I  think  it's  them  should  be  told  to 
take  care  of  that,  ma'am,"  was  Fry's 
rather  resentful  answer.  "  They  declare 
he  must  have  died  from  taking  an  over- 
dose of  opium  ;  which  amounts  to  pret- 
ty nigh  the  same  thing  as  saying  he  was 
poisoned.  I'd  like  to  ask  them  who  was 
likely  to  give  him  opium.  There  was 
was  not  such  a  thing  as  a  drop  in  the 
house  ;  but  doctors  must  have  their  say. 
It  was  a  fit." 

A  faint  noise,  curious  in  its  sound, 
caused  Fry  to  turn  sharply.  She  had 
been  putting  the  breakfast-things  to- 
gether while  she  talked.  Was  her  mis- 
tress going  to  have  a  fit  ?  She  looked 
like  it. 

"  Opium  !  He  died  from  opium  ! 
Do  they  say  that  ?  " 

"  They  do,  ma'am.  They  are  telling 
the  Major  of  it  now  in  the  dining-room  ; 
but  I  don't  believe  it's  true." 

With  a  face  as  white  as  ashes,  with 
hands  lifted  up  before  her  as  if  to  ward 
off  some  dreadful  blow,  with  a  strange 
terror  pervading  her  whole  aspect,  stood 
Mrs.  Dawkes. 

"  But— but— " 


224 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


Not  another  syllable.  Utterance  fail- 
ed ;  and  she  fell  back  on  the  seat  in  a 
dead  faint. 

''  And  enough  to  make  her,  poor  dear, 
when  such  atrocious  things  can  be  said 
of  her  own  child  ! "  ejaculated  the  sym- 
pathizing Fry,  flying  to  the  rescue. 

When  the  coroner's  inquest  met  in 
the  afternoon,  the  medical  men  declared 
their  opinion — that  the  child  had  died 
from  the  effect  of  some  narcotic,  proba- 
bly opium.  Judith,  as  nurse,  was  very 
sharply  questioned  —  turned  inside  out, 
as  may  be  said  —  as  to  what  food  the 
child  had  taken  in  the  evening  of  the 
day  preceding  his  death.  She  was  to 
the  full  as  indignant  as  Fry  —  more 
so,  indeed,  at  their  supposing  anything 
of  the  kind  could  have  found  its  way  to 
him  by  any  chance  whatever ;  but  Ju- 
dith, unlike  Fry,  was  not  loud.  Swal- 
lowing down  her  tears  and  striving  for 
calmness,  she  was  very  quiet  and  re- 
spectful, only  insisting  upon  it  that  the 
doctors  must  be  wrong.  Neither  bit 
nor  drop  had  approached  the  child's  lips 
but  what  she  herself  had  given  him — 
saving  a  small  bit  of  his  mamma's  but- 
tered toast  in  the  morning,  which  both 
she  and  her  mistress  had  watched  him 
eat. 

"  He  never  was  out  of  my  sight  dur- 
ing the  whole  day  for  one  minute,  gen- 
tlemen," she  earnestly  reiterated  to  the 
jury;  "and  I  can  take  my  oath  that  he 
had  nothing  but  his  ordinary  and  prop- 
er food.  The  doctors  say  that  what  he 
took  to  harm  him  must  have  been  taken 
at  night ;  but  after  his  tea  at  five 
o'clock,  which  was  bread-and-milk,  he 
had  nothing  whatever — except  the  des- 
sert-spoonful of  physic  when  he  was  un- 
dressed ;  and  the  doctors  know  that  that 
couldn't  have  hurt  him,  for  it  was  their 
own  physic,  sent  in  by  themselves,  and 
he  had  been  taking  it  for  two  or  three 
days." 

Judith's  simplicity  and  earnest  man- 
ner made  its'  own  favorable  impression 
on  the  coroner's  court.  Major  l)awkes, 
who  was  present,  testified  that  she  was 
a  truthful,  faithful  servant,  valued  by 
her  mistress,  and  fond  almost  to  idolatry 
of  the  child.  The  medicine-bottle,  re- 
maining in  its  place  on  the  mantel-piece 
with  the  one  close  left  in  it,  had  been 
examined  at  once  by  the  medical  men, 
and  found  to   be    exactly   as  they   had 


sent  it  in — right  and  proper  and  harm- 
less medicine.  In  fact,  so  far  as  reliable 
testimony  went,  nothing  could  be  more 
clearly  proved  than  that  the  child  had 
taken  nothing  improper,  and,  moreover, 
that  there  had  positively  occurred  no  op- 
portunity whatever  for  anything  else  to 
be  administered  to  him. 

No  one  could  have  had  access  to  him. 
When  the  child  was  in  bed — and  the 
nurse  testified  that  he  fell  asleep  almost 
as  she  laid  his  head  on  the  pillow — she, 
Judith.,  had  remained  in  the  room. 
Closing  the  door  between  the  two  nur- 
series, she  had  set  to  work  to  turn  out 
her  drawers  and  pack  up  her  own 
things,  all  of  which  were  in  the  bed- 
room. The  child  never  stirred,  she  said  ; 
he  was  sleeping  sound  and  fast.  Of 
course  it  was  now  known  that  he  was  in 
the  sleep  of  stupor,  passing  quietly  on 
to  death.  At  ten  o'clock — she  heard 
the  hour  strike  from  the  churches — she 
ran  down-stairs  for  her  supper  —  some 
bread-and-butter.  Bringing  it  up  on  a 
plate,  she  went  on  arranging  her  things, 
and  went  to  bed  between  eleven  and 
twelve. 

A  juryman  interrupted  to  inquire 
how  long  she  remained  downstairs,  and 
whether  any  one  meanwhile  could  have 
had  access  to  the  child. 

"  I  was  not  down  two  minutes,  sir," 
was  Judith's  answer ;  "  and  no  one 
could  have  had  access  to  the  child. 
Only  my  mistress  was  upstairs  —  she 
was  in  bed  in  her  own  room ;  and  the 
Major  was  not  at  home.  It  happened 
that  I  saw  every  one  of  the  servants 
down-stairs,  except  Richard  ;  and  I've 
heard  since  that  he  had  gone  out  on 
business  for  his  master. 

Major  Dawkes  nodded  a  corroboration 
of  this.  Before  going  out  himself  that 
evening,  he  had  given  his  servant  Rich- 
ard a  commission  to  execute  out  of 
doors. 

".No  one  can  regret  more  than  my- 
self that  I  should  have  been  absent  on 
this  particular  evening  and  night,"  add- 
ed the  Major  with  some  natural  emotion. 
'•'  It  was  getting  on  for  nine  o'clock  when 
I  left  home.  I  had  business  with  Mr. 
Kage  the  barrister,  and  went  down  to 
his  chambers  in  the  Temple.  I  slept  at 
Captain  Briscoe's,  and  got  home  between 
seven  and  eight  in  the  morning." 

"  So  that  personally,  you  know  noth- 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


225 


ing  of  the  sad  event,  Major  Dawkes  ?  " 
Bpoke  the  coroner  with  civility. 

"Nothing,  whatever,  I  am  sorry  to 
say.  I  consider  my  absence  most  unfor- 
tunate. Not  that,  had  I  been  at  home 
ever  so,  I  could  have  done  any  good,  or 
prevented  the  death.  The  chances  are 
— nay,  I  may  say  the  certainty — that  I 
should  not  have  known  of  it  one  mo- 
ment earlier  than  I  did  ;  but  I  neverthe- 
less regret  that  it  should  have  fallen  out 
BO." 

"  Did  the  child  appear  to  you  to  he  as 
well  and  lively  as  usual  that  day,  Major 
Dawkes  ?  " 

"  Quite  so  ;  what  little  I  saw  of  him. 
I  did  not  see  him  at  all  after  the  morn- 
ing. Once  or  twice,  in  passing  to  my 
bedroom,  I  heard  him  chattering  to  his 
nurse,  the  two  shut  up  in  the  nursery  ; 
but  I  did  not  see  him  myself  during  the 
latter  part  of  the  day." 

"  Can  you  at  all  account  for  this  fact 
— that  he  must  have  taken  opium  ?  " 

"  So  little  can  I  account  for  it,  that 
when  the  medical  men  informed  me  it 
was  the  case,  I  could  not,  and  did  not, 
believe  them.  Even  now  I  am  loth  to 
admit  it ;  for  it  seems  to  me  absolutely 
impossible  that  the  child  could  have 
been  brought  into  contact  with  anj- 
opium,  or  taken  it.  His  nurse,  as  you 
have  heard,  says  she  never  quitted  him 
at  all  ;  and  I  believe  it  to  have  been  so. 
She  is  a  perfectly  reliable  woman. 

The  coroner  and  jury  were  evidently 
at  a  nonplus.  Judith  was  recalled,  and 
told  to  restate  minutely  the  events  of 
the  evening  from  and  after  the  boy's 
tea-time.  Particularly  was  she  pressed 
upon  the  point,  whether  she  was  positive 
she  did  not  lose  sight  of  him  at  all  be- 
fore he  was  in  bed  ;  one  of  the  jury  re- 
marking that  children  were  apt  to  taste 
at  anything  they  came  near  if  not  watch- 
ed ;  his  were. 

"  We  had  tea  together  in  the  nursery, 
gentlemen — him  and  me,''"  said  Judith 
in  obedience.  "  Both  of  us  had  bread- 
and-milk  :  it's  what  I'm  fond  of,  having 
been  brought  up  in  the  country,  where 
milk's  a  plentj'.  Little  Tom  read  to  me 
after  tea — it  was  what  he  liked  doing — 
first  a  fairy  tale,  and  next  a  Bible  stor}\ 
Soon  after  seven,  his  mamma's  bell  rang 
for  him  to  go  down  to  her.  I  took  him ; 
and  my  mistress  began  talking  to  me 
about  the  morrow's  journey.  We  stay- 
14 


ed  there  ten  minutes  maybe,  or  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour.  I  went  back  with  him, 
then,  and  soon  undressed  him — " 

"Was  he  as  lively  as  usual?"  came 
the  interruption. 

"  Yes,  that  he  was,  sir — talking  about 
the  Rock — and  didn't  want  to  go  to 
bed.  But  when  I  told  him  how  tired 
he'd  be  on  the  morrow,  and  what  a  long 
way  it  was,  he  said  no  more.  He  was 
the  most  tractable  child  a  body  could 
have  to  do  with — as  good  as  gold.  He 
said  his  prayers  at  my  knee ;  and  I  gave 
him  his  spoonful  of  physic;  and  then 
he  got  drowsy,  and  I  put  him  into  bed. 
Nobody  came  near  him,  gentlemen  ;  and 
there  was  not  the  smallest  chance  that 
anybody  could  come.  After  he  was  in 
bed,  I  shut  myself  into  his  room,  and 
began  putting  the  things  together,  us 
I've  already  said." 

"Did  any  of  the  servants  come  jp 
during  this  time?  "  asked  a  juryman. 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  They  might 
have  come  into  the  day-nursery  without 
my  hearing  them.  I  don't  think  they 
did  ;  for  1  noticed  nothing  touched  in 
the  room  when  I  got  back  to  it." 

"  Were  the  servants  in  the  habit  of 
coming  up?"  resumed  the  same  jurv- 
man. 

"Sometimes  they'd  come  and  talk  a 
bit.  None  of  them  came  that  evening, 
sir,  that  I  know  of." 

"  If  all  the  servants  came  to  the 
nursery  after  the  boy  was  out  of  it,  it 
could  make  no  difference  to  the  question 
at  issue,"  interposed  the  coroner  impa- 
tiently. "  So  far  as  the  testimony  goes, 
— and  it  seems  to  me  that  we  may  rely 
upon  it, — neither  person  nor  thing  could 
have  approached  the  boy  to  harm  him." 

"  I  am  certain  that  it  didn't,"  replied 
Judith,  hot  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes. 

There  appeared  to  be  no  farther  evi- 
dence to  sift — nothing  more  to  be  learnt. 
The  case  presented  a  shroud  of  impene- 
trable ni3Tstery ;  and  after  some  discus- 
sion, the  coroner  and  jury  were  fain  to 
give  it  up  as  a  bad  job,  and  return  their 
verdict. 

"  Died  from  opium  ;  but  how  admin- 
istered, there  is  no  evidence  to  show." 

And  little  Tom  Canterbury's  body  was 
buried  in  a  London  cemetery,  his  soul 
having  departed  with  the  angels.  And 
Major  Dawkes  was  a  free  man  again,  and 
a  wealthy  one. 


226 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE     POSTERN     DOOR. 

The  wild  wind  was  whistling  and 
booming  round  the  station  at  Chilling  as 
the  train  came  rushing  along  in  the  dusk 
of  a  line  evening;  when  autumn  was 
merging  itself  into  winter.  Time,  work- 
ing its  changes  and  changes,  had  exten- 
ded still  farther  the  branch  of  the  Aber- 
ton  railway,  and  Chilling  itself  had  a  sta- 
tion now.  It  was  not  much  more  than 
a  bleak  little  shed  and  a  telegraph-box; 
but  Chilling  was  proud  of  it,  and  at  least 
three  trains  a-day  stopped  there. 

It  brought  freight  this  time.  Out  of 
one  first-class  compartment  stepped 
Thomas  Kage,  out  of  another  Mrs. 
Dunn — Lydia  Canterbury  in  the  days 
gone  by  ;  neither  of  whom  had  known 
that  the  other  was  in  the  train.  It 
sometimes  happens  so.  Both  of  them 
had  come  down  unexpectedly — that  is, 
unknown  to  their  friends  in  Chilling. 
A  solitary  fly  was  waiting  outside.  Mrs. 
Dunn  made  for  it  in  haste,  lest  anybody 
else  should  appropriate  it  first,  and  was 
calling  out  to  the  porter  to  bring  her 
luggage,  when  Thomas  Kage  went  up 
to  her. 

"  Goodness  me  !  "  cried  she  in  her  off- 
hand manner,  "what  brings  you  here?" 

"  I  have  come  down  on  a  little  busi- 
ness," he  answered.  "  I  did  not  know 
you  were  in  the  train." 

"  I'm  sure  1  did  not  know  you  were. 
I  wish  I  had  known  it.  Would  you  like 
a  seat  in  the  fly  ?  I  am  going  to  surprise 
them  at  Thornhedge  Villa;  they  don't 
know  of  my  coming." 

"  ~No,  thank  you.  I  shall  see  you 
soon." 

The  fly,  laden  with  its  luggage,  was 
rattled  off.  Mrs.  Dunn  ordered  it  to 
stop  at  Chilling  Rectory  ;  it  lay  in  the 
line  of  route  to  Thornhedge  Villa  ;  and 
indeed,  in  her  usual  free  and  easy  inde- 
pendence, she  had  not  quite  made  up 
her  mind  which  dwelling  to  honor  with 
a  visit  first.  Thomas  Kage  thought  she 
must  have  come  to  surprise  some  of 
them  with  a  tolerably  long  sojourn,  as 
he  looked  after  the  pile  of  boxes  on  the 
fly's  roof. 

Turning  away,  he  found  himself  greet- 
ed by  a  respectable,  portly  man,  wearing 
the  black  clothes  and  white  necktie  of 
an  upper  servant.     Mr.  Kage  knew  the 


face,  but  could  not  remember  where  he 
had  seen  it.- 

"  Neel,  sir  ;  butler  at  the  Rock." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Kage.  "  I 
remember  Mr.  Dawkes  told  me  you  re- 
mained at  the  Rock." 

"  Yes,  sir.  They  wanted  a  responsi- 
ble person  to  take  charge  at  the  Rock 
during  their  long  absences  from  it,  what 
with  the  valuable  paintings  and  furni- 
ture, so  I  have  stayed  ;  and  the  Major 
took  on  a  London  butler  up  there,  who 
robbed  them  frightfully,  we  hear." 

"  Is  Mrs.  Dawkes  staying  at  the  Rock 
now  ?  " 

"  She  is,  sir.  She  has  never  been 
away  from  it  since  she  came  down  when 
the  poor  little  heir  died  in  the  summer. 
I  think  she  is  very  ill,  sir." 

"  I  will  see  her  to-morrow,"  said  Mr. 
Kage. 

He  walked  away  with  Neel's  last 
words  ringing  in  his  ears,  cariying  his 
small  travelling-bag  in  his  hand — for  he 
had  the  same  propensity  to  wait  on  him- 
self as  of  3rore,  when  practicable.  He 
had  not  seen  Mrs.  Dawkes  since  the  day 
of  the  child's  funeral,  for  she  had  quitted 
London  immediately.  Twice  he  had 
written  to  her  at  the  Rock,  friendly  notes 
of  inquiry  as  to  her  health  and  welfare ; 
but  Mrs.  Dawkes  had  not  answered 
either.  When  he  met  the  Major  in 
town,  as  would  happen  sometimes  by 
chance,  he  was  told  Mrs.  Dawkes  was 
pretty  well,  and  enjoying  the  country. 

During  the  long  vacation  a  matter  of 
pressing  business  connected  with  Lord 
Hartledon  .had  taken  Mr.  Kage  first  to 
Switzerland  and  then  to  Scotland.  He 
returned  to  London  in  October,  was  up 
to  his  eyes  in  business  for  a  fortnight, 
and  had  now  travelled  down  to  Chilling 
for  a  specific  purpose — to  ask  Millicent 
Canterbury  to  be  his  wife. 

Turning  into  the  modest  inn,  the  Can- 
terbury  Arms,  he  washed  some  of  the 
dust  off  him,  changed  his  coat,  bespoke 
a  bed,  and  then  went  forth  again;  for  he 
wished  to  put  the  question  at  rest  with- 
out delay.  Taking  the  nearest  way  to 
Thornhedge  Villa  —  the  Miss  Canter- 
bury's' residence  since  their  father's  ill- 
omened  second  marriage — he  was  enter- 
ing the  garden-gate,  when  a  young  lady, 
running  up  with  fleet  footsteps  from  the 
opposite  direction,  nearly  ran  against 
him. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


2.7 


"Millicent!" 

She  gave  a  little  scream  of  surprise, 
and  started  in  the  dusk  from  the  exten- 
ded hand.  But  it  was  truly  and  verita- 
bly Thomas  Kage — his  voice,  his  hand, 
himself — and  Miss  Millicent  timidly 
begged  his  pardon,  and  blushed  like  a 
schoolgirl. 

"  It  has  so  surprised  me.  There's 
scarcely  any  one  in  the  world  I  should 
have  less  thought  of  seeing  than  you.  I 
have  been  to  the  schools,"  Millicent  added 
rapidly,  as  if  wishing  to  cover  some  agi- 
tation that  she  was  very  conscious  her 
manner  betrayed.  "  My  sister  Jane  is 
not  strong,  and  I  take  the  trouble  of  the 
schools  from  her." 

"  I  think  there  is  another  surprise  in 
store  for  you.  What  should  you  say  if 
I  told  you  your  sister  is  here  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Eufort?"  asked  Millicent, 
looking  towards  the  windows  of  the 
house. 

"  Mrs.  Dunn." 

"  Impossible ! " 

"  Quite  possible,  and  quite  true,"  said 
Thomas  Kage. 

"  But  she  is  in  Germany.  We  are 
beginning  to  think  she  intends  to  take 
up  her  abode  there  for  good." 

"  I  think  she  must  be  intending  to 
take  it  up  here  for  good.  I  judge  by  the 
trunks  that  have  come  with  her." 

Millicent  laughed.  He  explained 
about  the  meeting  as  they  walked  along. 
In  point  of  fact,  Mrs.  Dunn,  obejung  one 
of  her  many  sudden  whims,  had  taken 
it  into  her  head  to  quit  Germany,  and 
come  down  to  see  her  relatives.  The 
writing  to  inform  them  she  had  looked 
upon  as  quite  superfluous. 

Millicent's  pulses  were  beating.  Hers 
had  in  truth  been  a  lasting  love,  endur- 
ing through  many  years  and  no  encour- 
agement. No  encouragement,  at  least, 
that  she  could  take  hold  of,  though  now 
and  again  stray  tones  and  looks  in  their 
rare  meetings  might  have  whispered 
hope  to  her  heart. 

"  You  have  not  seen  Mrs.  Dawkes 
lately  ?  "  observed  Millicent. 

"  Not  since  her  child  died.  What  a 
blow  that  was  !  " 

"  A  worse  one  for  her  than  we  can 
even  imagine,  I  fear,"  said  Millicent. 
"  She  looks  fearfully  ill ;  but  we  very 
rarely  meet.  You  have  come  down  I 
suppose  to  see  her  ?  " 


"  Not  so.  I  came  down,  Millicent,  to 
see  }'ou." 

A  hot  flush  in  her  face,  a  startled  look, 
visible  even  in  the  dim  twilight.  Mr. 
Kage  touched  her  arm,  and  drew  her 
down  a  side-path  they  were  passing. 

"  Let  us  walk  here  for  a  few  minutes, 
Millicent." 

Seated  by  her  dressing-room  fire, 
with  little  prevision  of  the  surprises  in 
store  for  her,  was  Olive  Canterbury. 
The  door  opened  softly,  and  Millicent 
came  in. 

"  Olive,  will  you  go  into  the  drawing- 
room  ?  "  she  said.    "  Some  one  is*  there." 

"  Who  is  it,  Leta  ?  "  asked  Olive,  won- 
dering what  could  have  sent  the  young 
lady's  face  into  its  scarlet  glow. 

"  Thomas  Kage.  He  came  down  by 
train.     He  wants  to  see  you." 

Down  sat  Millicent  as  she  spoke  :  she 
was  not  wanted  in  the  drawing-room. 
Olive  Canterbury  took  notice  of  the  signs 
— of  the  faltering  .tones  and  the  down- 
cast eyes — drew  her  conclusions,  and 
passed  out  of  the  room  with  a  stately 
step.  As  to  Mrs.  Dunn,  she  had  gone 
out  of  Beta's  mind  wholesale. 

"  Your  visit  is  unexpected,  but  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Olive,  shak- 
ing Mr.  Kage's  hand  heartily,  for  he  was 
a  great  favorite  of  hers. 

"  My  visit  is  to  Millicent,  he  answered, 
plunging  at  once  into  the  matter  that 
had  brought  him  down.  "  I  have  come 
to  ask  her  to  be  my  wife.  I  should  have 
asked  it  long  ago,  but  that  briefs  did  not 
come  in  so  quickly  as  I  wished.  They 
have  taken  a  turn  for  the  better  of  late." 

"  And  what  does  Millicent  say  ?  " 

"  Millicent  ran  away  and  said  noth- 
ing," he  answered  with  a  smile  ;  "  noth- 
ing very  decisive,  at  any  rate.  So  I  call- 
ed out  that  I  had  better  see  you." 

"  A  good  sign,"  laughed  Miss  Canter- 
bury. "  I  fancy  you  and  Leta  have  un- 
derstood each  other  for  some  time,"  she 
added.  "  I  know  I  used  to  think  so  when 
we  were  in  London." 

"  Tacitly,  I  think  we  have.  And  T 
hope  Millicent  has  understood  why  it  was 
only  tacitly.     I  was  too  poor  to  speak." 

"  Millicent's  fortune  would  have  help- 
ed you  on,  Mr.  Kage." 

"  It  is  that  fortune  which  has  kept  me 
from  her,"  he  replied. 

"  It  need  not.  It  is  only  ten  thousand 
pounds." 


228 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


Thomas  Kage  raised  his  eyes,  bright 
with  amusement,  to  Miss  Canterbury's 
face.  "  Only  ten  thousand  !  A  very 
paltry  sum,  no  doubt,  to  the  Miss  Can- 
terburys,  reared  to  their  hundreds  of 
thousands,  but  a  Golconda  to  a  strug- 
gling barrister.'' 

"  Beared  to  their  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands ;  yes  !  "  retorted  Miss  Canterbury, 
with  a  swelling  heart,  "but  not  enjoying 
them." 

Sitting  down,  he  went  briefly  over  his 
position  with  her  ;  showing  her  what  his 
present  income  was;  saying  how  greatly 
the  bequest  of  the  two  houses  from  Mrs. 
Garston  had  helped  him  on.  He  should 
scarcely  think  himself  justified  yet  in 
removing  to  the  larger  of  the  two,  accord- 
ing to  the  wish  expressed  by  his  kind  old 
friend,  he  said;  but  Millicent  should  de- 
cide the  point  for  herself.  Both  of  them 
evidently  took  her  consent  to  the  mar- 
riage for  granted.  Miss  Canterbury  ask- 
ed him  to  stay  and  partake  of  dinner, 
without  ceremony. 

But  ere  that  meal  could  be  announced, 
even  now  as  they  were  talking  together, 
up  dashed  Mrs.  Dunn's  fly,  with  part  of 
the  luggage,  taking  the  house  by  storm. 
The  other  part  had  been  left  at  the  Rec- 
tory, for  she  meant  to  divide  her  time  be- 
tween them,  she  told  Olive.  Olive  was 
delighted  to  see  her;  it  seemed  an  age 
since  they  met. 

Not  a  greater  contrast  than  of  yore 
did  the  three  sisters  present  sitting  down 
to  dinner  together.  Olive,  lofty  in  mind, 
lofty  in  manner,  tall,  handsome,  always 
self-possessed ;  Lydia  Dunn,  stout,  rest- 
less, an  inveterable  talker ;  Millicetit, 
much  younger  than  either,  quiet  and 
graceful.  But  Millicent  would  never  see 
twenty-seven  again.  Time  passes  swift- 
ly :  year  follows  year,  each  with  a  more 
rapid  wing  than  its  precursor.  Miss  Can- 
terbury took  as  usual  the  head  of  her  ta- 
ble, requesting  Thomas  Kage  to  face 
her. 

"  Now  then,  Mr.  Kage,  I  am  going  to 
cross-question  you,"  impatiently  began 
Mrs.  Dunn,  the  instant  the  servant  had 
left  them  alone  after  dinner.  "  Who 
gave  the  poison  to  that  child,  little  Tom 
Canterbury  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  problem  I  cannot  solve," 
was  his  reply. 

"  You  were  on  the  spot  at  the  time." 

"  I  was  in  London." 

"  And  I  abroad,"  pursued  Mrs.  Dunn 


in  a  tone  of  much  resentment.  "  It  was 
a  dreadful  occurrence  ;  and  all  the  infor- 
mation I  could  gain  of  it  was  by  letters 
or  hearsay.  Do  you  tell  me  the  particu- 
lars. I  had  a  great  mind  to  come  over 
and  ascertain  them  for  myself;  but  it 
would  have  answered  no  end.  Begin  at 
the  beginning,  please.  Had  he  been 
ill  ?  " 

"  He  had  been  dangerously  ill  witlvin- 
flammation  of  the  chest,  but  was  getting 
better  ;  in  fact,  was  nearly  well,"  said 
Mr.  Kage,  obeying  her  implicitly,  and 
recalling  the  facts.  "  Mrs.  Dawkes  was 
about  to  take  him  to  the  Rock  for  change 
of  air.  That  same  morning,  the  one  they 
ought  to  have  started,  he  was  found  dead 
in  his  bed." 

•'  And  had  died  from  a  dose  of  opium. 
But  now,  who  gave  it  him  ?" 

"  The  facts  were  shrouded  in  mystery," 
continued  Mr.  Kage,  "  and  the  coroner's 
jury  returned  an  open  verdict.  The 
nurse  was  perfectly  trustworthy,  and  the 
child  had  not  been  out  of  her  sight  the 
whole  of  the  previous  day.  She  undress- 
ed him,  gave  him  his  regular  medicine, 
and  put  him  into  his  bed  by  the  side  of 
her  own.  She  heard  nothing  of  him  in 
the  night ;  and  in  the  morning,  when  she 
came  to  take  him  up,  he  was  dead." 

"What  was  that  medicine ?"  suspi- 
ciously asked  Mrs.  Dunn. 

"  Harmless,  proper  medicine,  as  was 
proved  at  the  inquest.  He  had  been 
taking  a  dessert-spoonful  of  it  three  times 
a-day." 

"  Some  one  must  have  got  into  the 
bedroom  and  administered  the  poison  ; 
that's  clear,"  said  Mrs.  Dunn.  "The 
nurse  Judith  was  trustworthy  ;  I'll  give 
her  that  due.  She  was  one  of  the  house- 
maids at  the  Rock,  before  we  left  it,  or 
my  father  had  made  a  simpleton  of  him- 
self by  marrying  that  flighty  child  Car- 
oline Kage.  When  the  changes  came 
and  the  new  baby  was  born,  Judith  be- 
came its  nurse.  Yes,  she  was  to  be 
trusted.  But  somebody  must  have  got 
into  the  chamber  while  she  slept." 

"  No  one  went  in  ;  that  seems  to  have 
been  certain,"  observed  Mr.  Kage 

"  0,  ajT,  I  know  it  was  so  asserted," 
contemptuously  returned  Mrs.  Dunn  ; 
"  but  the  boy  could  not  have  found  a 
bottle  of  laudanum  in  his  bed,  uncorked 
ready  for  use,  and  swallowed  it  down.  It 
does  not  stand  to  reason,  Mr.  Kage." 

"Judith  deposed  that  she  never  left 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL. 


229 


the  room  for  more  than  a  couple  of  min- 
utes after  the  boy  was  in  bed,  and  then 
no  one  could  have  got  to  him.  She  put 
up  some  things  that  would  be  wanted 
for  the  journey  in  the  morning,  and  then 
went  to  bed  herself,  the  doors  being  lock- 
ed ;  and  they  were  so  locked  when  she 
rose  in  the  morning.  No  one  could  have 
entered." 

"  Well,  all  I  know  is,  that  poison  can- 
not be  taken  into  a  child's  mouth  with- 
out its  being  put  there ;  and  you  are  the 
first  person  that  ever  I  heard  say  it 
could,  Mr.  Kage." 

He  glanced  at  the  angry  lady  with  a 
spice  of  merriment ;  but  for  the  grave 
subject,  lie  might  have  laughed  outright. 
"  Did  I  say  it  could,  Mrs.  Dunn  ?  " 

"  Just  as  good,  when  you  assert  that 
nobody  was  near  him  but  Judith." 

"  Judith  never  left  him  ;  that  appears 
to  be  a  fact,"  interposed  Miss  Canter- 
bury, speaking  for  the  first  time.  "  The 
medical  men  thought  the  poison  had 
been  taken  about  evening  time,  did  they 
not,  Mr.  Kage  ?  " 

Thomas  Kage  nodded. 

"  Now,  Olive,  pray  let  me  speak," 
broke  in  her  impatient  sister.  "  You 
were  in  the  way  of  hearing  it  at  the 
time,  remember.  Mr.  Kage,  I  want  to 
know  what  your  opinion  is — how  did  he 
come  by  the  poison  ?  Do  you  suspect 
any  one  of  having  given  it  to  him  ? 
Answer  me  frankly  amidst  ourselves." 

"  Frankly  speaking,  Mrs.  Dunn,  I 
cannot  answer  you.  As  to  suspecting 
any  one — No.  The  child  seems  to  have 
been  so  entirely  compassed  about  by 
protection,  that  I  do  not  see  how  it  was 
possible  for  harm,  whether  in  the  shape 
of  mankind  or  womankind,  to  approach 
him.  The  matter  to  me  appears  to  be 
one  of  those  mysteries  that  cannot  be 
accounted  for." 

"  Then  j'ou  positively  know  nothing 
more  to  tell  me  !  "  cried  the  exasperated 
Mrs.  Dunn. 

"  I  really  do  not." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  thing.  So  unsatisfactory !  Where's 
Judith  now  ?  " 

"  Judith  took  another  situation  after- 
wards," said  Miss  Canterbury.  "  Some- 
where in  Essex,  I  think." 

"  Mrs.  Dawkes  has  been  a  fine  gainer. 
The  death  gave  her  all  the  splendid 
Canterbury  fortune." 


"Hush,  Lydia!"  interrupted  Olive. 
"  However  much  we  may  have  felt  dis- 
posed to  cast  previous  reflections  on 
Mrs.  Dawkes,  we  can  but  have  the  sin- 
cerest  sympathy  for  her  in  her  great 
mi-fortune.  I  believe  she  idolized  the 
child." 

"She  was  very  fond  of  him,"  said 
Mr.  Kage,  "  and  her  grief  was  pitiable 
to  witness.  She  clung  round  me  and 
asked  if  I  could  not  bring  him  back  to 
life.  Fry  sent  for  me  in  the  afternoon, 
and  I  found  Caroline  almost  beside  her- 
self. Major  Dawkes  had  gone  out, 
about  some  of  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments, they  said,  and  she  was  alone. 
She  clung  to  me,  as  I  tell  you,  in  a  sad 
state  ;  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do  with 
her." 

"  She  came  down  to  the  Rock  a  mere 
skeleton,  the  day  after  the  funeral,"  re- 
marked Miss  Canterbury.  We  were 
shocked  when  we  called  upon  her.  She 
briefly  and  shrinkingly  told  us  the  par- 
ticulars, tallying  with  what  you  have 
now  related,  and  said  she  should  never 
recover  the  blow  during  life.  I  thought, 
as  she  spoke,  that  she  little  knew  how 
time  heals  the  worst  pangs ;  but  I  fear 
my  thoughts  were  too  fast,  for  she  does 
not  recover  either  strength  or  spirits. 
We  scarcely  ever  see  her  :  there  seems 
to  be  an  unwillingness  on  her  part  to 
receive  visitors,  and  she  leads  a  very  se- 
cluded life.  I  do  not  think  it  can  be 
good  for  her." 

"The  Major  passes  most  of  his  time 
in  London,"  abruptly  remarked  Thomas 
Kage. 

"  He  passes  it  somewhere,"  replied 
Miss  Canterbury;  "he  is  rarely  at  the 
Rock." 

"At  any  rate,  he  has  gained  by  the 
bargain,"  cried  the  incorrigible  Mrs. 
Dunn.  "It  is  a  magnificent  fortune  for 
him  to  have  dropped  into,  all  unexpect- 
:  edly,  through  the  demise  of  a  little  step- 
son." 

"  It  is  his  wife  who  has  dropped  into 
it,  not  he,"  remarked  Miss  Canterbury. 

"  As  if  he  did  not  have  the  fingering 
of  it !  "  retorted  Mrs.  Dunn. 

And  Thomas  Kage  drew  in  his  lips, 
compressing  them  to  silence.  Fingering, 
ay ! 

"Keziah  Dawkes,  that  sister  of  his, 
lives  with  her,  I  hear,"  said  Mrs.  Dunn. 
"  Austin  Rufort  told  me.     A  nice  wet 


230 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


blanket    she   must   be  judging   by  her 
face,  to  live  with  an  invalid  !  " 

"  A  cold,  gray,  hard-looking  woman," 
acquiesced  Olive  Canterbury.  "  Caro- 
line comes  abroad  but  rarely  ;  when  she 
does,  it  is  but  to  walk  or  drive  to  her 
mother's  cottage  and  home  again  ;  and 
Miss  Dawkes  is  always  with  her  like 
her  shadow.  Poor  Caroline  seems  as 
though  she  could  never  more  find  com- 
fort in  life ;  it  is  a  sadness  painful  to 
look  upon." 

"  0  my  goodness  !  And  what  satis- 
faction has  the  fortune  brought  her,  that 
she  so  schemed  for  ?  "  cried  Lydia  Dunn. 
"  Only  a  few  short  years,  and  to  have 
it  believed  that  there's  no  more  comfort 
for  her  in  life !  And  her  mother — the 
worse  plotter  of  the  two — a  nice  misera- 
ble object  she  is,  by  all  account !  Aus- 
tin Rufort  came  in  from  seeing  her  this 
afternoon  while  I  was  there.  We  are 
better  off  than  they  are,  with  all  their 
wealth.  As  to  that  Dawkes,  Mrs.  Gars- 
ton  knew  what  she  was  about  when  she 
left  her  fortune  away  from  him.  She 
was  an  insolent  old  woman  to  the  last, 
though.  Fancy  a  Bible  and  Prayer- 
book  the  legacy  to  me,  and  to  Olive  a 
case  of  diamonds !  I'm  sick  of  the 
world  at  times.  Let  us  go  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, if  nobody  wants  to  take  any- 
thing more." 

In  her  unceremonious  fashion,  she 
rose  at  once  and  went  away.  When 
Mr.  Kage  followed  them,  he  found  Milli- 
cent  alone  near  the  fire ;  her  sisters 
were  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  exam- 
ining some  presents  brought  by  Mrs. 
Dunn  from  Germany. 

"  Millicent,  I  have  had  no  direct  an- 
swer, remember,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 
"But  I  am  easy  on  the  score  ;  for  I 
know  the  signs  of  rejection  well,  and 
you  do  not  wear  them." 

"  Have    you   been   rejected  that   you 
(know  them  well  ?  " 
.       "  Once — years  ago." 

"  By  Caroline  Kage  ?  "  she  whispered. 

"  Even  so.  I  thought  you  must  have 
known  it  at  the  time.  I  loved  her, 
Millicent ;  how  deeply,  matters  little 
now,  and  has  not  mattered  since  that 
time.     She  broke  the  spell  too  rudely." 

"  When  she  left  you  to  marry  my 
father — or  rather,  his  fortune  ;  for  that 
was  what  in  truth  she  married.  But 
she  did  love  you,  Thomas  :  1  saw  it  then  ; 


and  she  continued  to  love  you,  or  I  am 
mistaken,  after  papa's  death." 

He  knew  she  had.  But  he  was 
strictly  honorable ;  and  that  love  and 
its  acknowledgment  would  be  buried 
within  the  archives  of  his  own  breast 
for  ever. 

"I  shall  not  make  you  the  less  fond 
husband,  Millicent,  for  having  indulged 
a  dream  in  the  days  gone  by." 

She  felt  that  to  be  true.  But  there's 
a  dash  of  coquetry  in  all  women,  and 
will  be  to  the  end  of  time.  Millicent 
affected  to  doubt. 

"  If  Major  Dawkes  were  to  die  to- 
morrow, leaving  Caroline  free,  jtou 
might  wish  then  you  had  not  spoken 
to  me." 

Mr.  Kage  looked  at  her.  "That 
contingency  has  arisen  once,  when  your 
father  died." 

No  answer. 

"  Millicent,  seeing  as  I  see  now,  lov- 
ing one  of  you  as  I  do  now,  and  not  the 
other,  were  you  and  Caroline  standing 
before  me  for  my  choice,  and  she  had 
never  been  else  than  free,  never  a  wife, 
it  is  you  I  should  take.  Time  has 
worked  its  changes  within  me,  as  well 
as  in  life's  events.  My  darling,  you 
need  not  doubt  me  !  " 

Her  hand  was  sheltered  in  his ;  a  sweet 
smile  parted  her  lips ;  and  on  her  cheek, 
partly  turned  from  him,  shone  a  bright 
glow  of  rose-color. 

It  was  rather  cruel  abruptly  to  inter- 
rupt the  interview ;  and  perhaps  Olive 
Canterbury  herself  thought  so,  she  had 
no  other  resource.  A  servant  had  come 
in,  bringing  a  note  for  Mr.  Kage,  marked 
"  Immediate."  He  wondered  who  could 
be  writing  to  him  there  and  then  ;  but 
when  he  looked  at  the  supersciption,  he 
saw  it  was  from  Mrs.  Dawkes. 

"  Open  your  note,  Mr.  Kage ;  don't 
stand  on  ceremony." 

He  was  opening  it  as  Mrs.  Dunn 
spoke.  She  watched  him,  feeling  curi- 
ous. It  contained  a  request,  than  which 
none  more  earnest  had  ever  been  penned, 
that  he  would  go  at  once  to  the  Rock, 
would  return  with  the  messenger,  and 
not  speak  of  it  to  any  one. 

"  Who  has  brought  this  ?  "  he  asked 
of  the  servant. 

"  It's  Fry,  sir,  Mrs.  Dawkses's  maid  ; 
she  is  waiting  at  the  door ;  she'd  not  come 
in." 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


231 


With  a  word  of  apology  to  Miss  Can- 
terbury for  his  departure,  but  none  of 
explanation,  Mr.  Kage  withdrew.  Out- 
side he  found  Fry.  She  said  that  Mrs. 
Dawkes  wanted  to  see  him  for  some- 
thing very  particular  indeed,  if  he  would 
be  so  kind  as  to  go  back  to  the  Rock 
with  her.  Mr.  Kage  acquiesced,  and 
they  proceeded  on  the  way  together. 

"I  hear  your  mistress  is  not  in  a  good 
state  of  health,"  he  observed. 

f<  She's  just  in  that  state,  sir,  that  un- 
less a  change  takes  place  more  speedier 
than  it's  possible,  she  will  not  last  long," 
was  the  maid's  answer. 

He  was  deeply  shocked,  but  he  made 
no  comment ;  though  he  could  not  but 
think  there  was  something  unreasonable 
in  her  thus  grieving  to  death  for  the  loss 
of  a  fragile  child. 

"  Is  the  Major  at  the  Rock  just  now  ? '' 
he  inquired. 

"  No,  sir.  His  sister  is  with  us;  she 
came  down  here  the  day  following  the 
one  me  and  my  mistress  came,  and  she 
has  never  gone  away  since.  As  to  the 
Major,  it's  not  often  he  troubles  the 
Rock." 

"  But  with  his  wife  in  this  precarious 
state  ?  "  debated  Thomas  Kage. 

"  0,  as  to  that,  my  poor  mistress  would 
as  lieve  have  his  room  as  his  company. 
The}'  are  not  too  good  friends,  sir." 

Fry  gave  her  head  a  toss  in  the  star- 
light. It  seemed  evident  that  she  was 
not  too  good  a  friend  of  the  Major's 
either.     Mr.  Kage  said  nothing. 

"My  mistress  has  been  wanting  to  see 
you  so  much,  sir,  that  she  was  talking  of 
sending  to  London  for  you,"  resumed 
Fry.  "  When  I  told  her  to-night  that 
you  were  at  Chilling,  she  said  it  was 
nothing  but  a  Providence  that  had 
brought  you  down." 

"  How  did  }'ou  know  I  was  here  ?  " 

"  Neel  brought  in  word,  sir.  He 
went  to  the  station  after  a  parcel  of  books 
Miss  Dawkes  expected,  and  saw  you 
there.  I  went  round  to  the  inn  first,  and 
they  said  they  thought  you  had  gone  to 
Miss  Canterbury's." 

"Is  it  the  grieving  for  the  child  that 
has  brought  your  mistress  into  this  sad 
state  of  health  ?  " 

"  It  can't  be  anything  else,  sir.  She 
has  never  looked  up,  so  to  say,  since  he 
was  put  into  his  grave.  Not  that  she 
ever  speaks  of  it,  even  to  me.     I  have 


ventured  once  or  twice  to  say  that  she 
ought  not  to  let  it  prey  upon  her  mind 
so,  as  the  dear  little  boy  is  better  off;  but 
she  answers  nothing — only  tells  me  to 
hold  my  tongue." 

"  She  wants  cheerful  society,  and 
change." 

"Just  what  I  say,  sir,"  returned  Fry. 
"  Always  alone,  and  brooding  upon  it,  it 
stands  to  reason  that  she  can't  shake  it 
off.  I'm  sure  the  way  she  tosses  and 
turns  and  moans  in  her  sleep  is  enough 
to  make  her  ill,  let  alone  anything  else. 
I  sleep  in  her  room  now,  sir.  The  day 
the  inquest  took  place  in  London,  she 
saj's  to  me,  '  Fiy,  get  a  bed  put  up  in  my 
room  to-night ;  I  am  ill,  and  may  want 
attendance  in  the  night.'  Since  that 
she  has  never  let  me  go  out  of  her  room 
again.  If  she  moves  her  room — and  she 
has  twice  since  she  came  to  the  Rock — 
my  bed  has  to  be  moved  too." 

"Is  Miss  Dawkes  a  sufficiently  cheer- 
ful companion  for  your  mistress  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Kage,  a  doubtful  accent  in  his  voice. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  believe  she  does  her  best 
to  amuse  her.  But  my  mistress  sits  a 
great  deal  alone  in  her  own  rooms,  where 
she  won't  always  admit  Miss  Dawkes  : 
she  never  liked  her,  and  that's  the  fact." 

Walking  quickly,  they  had  approached 
the  Rock,  and  were  close  on  the  front 
entrance.  Fry  took  a  sudden  detour  to 
the  right. 

"  This  way,  if  you  please,  sir,"  she 
whispered. 

"  This  way  !  "  echoed  Mr.  Kage  ;  for 
the  wa}r  led  direct  into  the  wilderness  of 
trees  that  bordered  the  south  wing  of  the 
Rock.     "  Wherefore  ?  " 

"  It's  all  right,  sir." 

Glancing  back  at  the  house,  he  saw 
how  dull  it  looked  ;  scarcely  any  lights 
to  be  seen  in  its  windows :  just  like  the 
dwelling  of  one  who  lives  a  sick  life,  se- 
cluded from  the  world.  Fry  plunged 
into  a  labyrinth  of  trees,  and  Mr.  Kage 
followed  her. 

"  My  mistress  does  not  wish  your  visit 
to  her  known,  sir  ;  and  I  am  going  to  take 
you  in  by  the  small  iron  postern-door 
in  the  south  wing,"  said  Fry  in  a  confi- 
dential tone.  "  A  rare  trouble  I  had  to 
unlock  it  to-night,  for  it  has  never  been 
used — no,  nor  opened  either — since  the 
time  of  young  Mr.  Edward  Canterbury. 
I  thought  I  should  have  bad  to  call  Neel, 
but  my  mistress  said  do  it  myself,  if  I 


9S-? 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


could.  You've  beard  of  the  door,  sir,  I 
daresay  ;  it  opens  on  a  staircase  which 
leads  right  up  to  the  rooms  in  the  south 
wing  ;  and  Mr.  Edgar  used  to  steal  in 
and  out  that  way,  when  his  father  want- 
ed to  keep  too  tight  a  hand  upon  him. 
My  mistress  has  changed  her  apartments 
for  these.  I  didn't  want  her  to.  Edgar 
Canterbury  died  in  them,  and  I  thought 
it  looked  like  a  bad  omen ;  but  Miss 
Dawkes  said  she  was  to  go  in  them  if  she 
liked,  and  not  be  checked  in  such  a  trifle. 
But  for  her  being  in  them,  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  how  ever}rou  would  have  got 
to  her  to-night,  sir,  unbeknown." 

"  To  whom  does  Mrs.  Dawkes  not  wish 
my  visit  known  ?  "  he  asked.  "  To  the 
servants  ?  " 

"  Chiefly  to  Miss  Dawkes,  sir.  But 
there's  none  of  them  she'd  trust,  except 
me  and  Neel  ;  thej^  are  all  regular  gos- 
sips.    Mind  your  face,  sir." 

It  all  sounded  mysteriously  enough, 
especially  Ery's  voice.  The  shrubs  were 
dense  just  here,  and  the  recommendation 
as  to  his  face  was  connected  with  the 
spreading  brambles,  the  door — a  small 
iron  door — being  completely  hidden  by 
them.  Fry  dexterously  fought  her  way 
to  it,  took  a  ke}T  from  her  pocket,  and 
turned  it  iu  the  lock.  After  a  great  deal 
of  creaking  and  groaning,  the  door  al- 
lowed itself  to  be  pushed  open.  Mr. 
Kage  saw  a  flight  of  narrow  stairs,  on 
one  of  which  stood  a  lighted  hand-lamp. 
'•  You  must  excuse  the  dust,  sir.  It's 
an  inch  thick." 

Locking  the  door  behind  her,  she  took 
the  lamp  to  light  him  up.  At  the  top 
of  the  stairs  another  door  had  to  he 
opened,  andadark  closet  passed  through. 
This  brought  them  to  the  habitable  part 
of  the  south  wing.  Crossing  the  richly- 
carpeted  corridor,  Thomas  Kage  found 
himself  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Dawkes. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

IN    THE    SOUTH    WING. 

Shocked  though  Mr.  Kage  had  been 
by  Fry's  account  of  her  mistress's  state, 
*  far,  far  more  shocked  was  he  to  see  her. 
The  room  was  small  but  handsome,  and 
replete  with  every  comfort.  Mrs. 
Dawkes  sat  on  a  sofa  near  the  fire  :  her 


features  were  white  and  attenuated,  her 
cheeks  and  lips  scarlet  with  inward 
fever,  and  a  dark  circle  surrounded  her 
wild  bright  eyes.  The  black-silk  dress 
she  wore  sat  loosely  ;  her  beautiful 
golden  hair,  bound  back  by  a  bit  of 
black  ribbon,  fell  carelessly  •  on  her 
shoulders.  She  did  not  rise  from  the 
sofa,  but  held  out  both  her  hands  to 
Thomas  Kage.  He  advanced  and  took 
them  in  silence. 

"  Fr}',"  said  Mrs.  Dawkes,  bending 
aside  to  look  beyond  him,  "  remain  in 
the  room  next  the  baize  door.  If  she 
comes  to  the  door,  call  out  to  her  that  I 
am  not  visible  to-night;  but  don't  un- 
lock it  to  answer  her.  I  am  too  unwell 
to  go  down,  say,  and  can  see  no  one 
here." 

"  All  right,  ma'am,"  answered  Fry  as 
she  went  out  and  closed  the  door. 

Thomas  Kage  still  retained  her 
hands,  looking  the  pity  he  would  not 
express.  He  thought  her  culpably 
wrong  to  give  way  to  this  intense  grifri", 
but  supposed  it  had  become  morbid. 
She  gazed  up  into  his  face  with  a  yearn- 
ing look. 

"  Years  ago,  in  this  very  bouse,"  she 
began,  "  }Tou  said  that  }'ou  would  hence- 
forth from  that  time  be  unto  me  as  a 
brother,  other  relationship  between  us 
being  barred.  You  said  that  if  ever  I 
were  in  need  of  a  true  friend,  I  was  to 
apply  to  you.  I  have  put  aside  the  old 
feelings — I  have  indeed;  but  I  want  a 
friend.     Will  }rou  be  one  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  will,  Caroline.  Your 
best  and  truest  friend  :  your  brother." 

He  relinquished  her  hands,  and  sat 
down  by  her. 

"  I  have  had  a  door  put  up  —  you 
might  have  seen  it  had  you  looked  to 
the  other  end  of  the  corridor — a  strong 
green-baize  door  that  fastens  inside.  I 
made  the  excuse  that  the  apartments  in 
this  wing  were  cold,  and  1  would  have 
them  shut  in  from  the  draught." 

It  was  not  so  much  the  words  that 
struck  upon  Thomas  Kage  as  being  un- 
pleasantly singular  ;  it  was  the  manner, 
the  tone  in  which  they  were  uttered. 
She  spoke  in  a  hushed  whisper,  and 
turned  her  eyes  to  different  parts  of  the 
room,  as  if  in  dread  of  being  watched 
from  the  walls. 

"  I  think  I  dreamt  of  this  evening — 
of  your  coming  here,"  she  continued  ; 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


233 


"  T  am  sure  it  has  been  presented  in- 
distinctly to  my  mind.  And  I  knew 
that  1  could  not  talk  to  you  undisturb- 
ed, so  I  had  the  door  put  up  for  that,  as 
well  as  to  keep  her  out — and  him,  when 
he  is  down  here." 

"  You  dreamt  of  this  evening  ?  "  ask- 
ed Thomas  Kage,  not  catching  distinct- 
ly the  thread  of  the  sense. 

"  I  seem  to  have  foreseen  it.  I  knew 
that  I  should  need  to  see  you  before  I 
die  —  for  who  else  is  there  that  I  can 
trust  ? — and  I  knew  that  so  long  as  she 
could  get  access  to  me  there  was  no 
chance  of  any  private  conversation. 
Besides,  I  wanted  to  be  alone,  all  to 
myself;  away  from  the  weariness  of  her 
continual  presence,  from  her  observant 
eyes  !     She's  a  spy  upon  me,  she  is." 

A  strange  fear  came  over  Thomas 
Kage  as  he  listened.  Had  she  in  any 
degree  lost  her  mind?  Something  in 
the  words  and  the  unconnected  tone 
suggested  the  thought  to  him.  But  he 
was  wrong.  Highly  feverish  she  was  ; 
her  mind  restless,  her  manner  nervous  ; 
but  nothing  more. 

"  I  know  she  is  placed  over  me  as  a 
spy.  I  can  see  it,  and  so  can  Fry  ;  but 
I  am  now  in  that  state  of  nervous  weak- 
ness that  any  great  scene  of  agitation 
might  kill  me,  so  I  do  not  exert  my 
authority  to  turn  her  out.  But  I  am 
the.  Rock's  mistress,  and  I  will  be  as 
long  as  I  live ;  and  I  sent  for  the  man, 
a:id  gave  my  orders,  and  had  the  door 
put  up." 

"  You  speak  of  Miss  Dawkes  ?  " 
"  Yes.  She  watches  me  like  a  cat  by 
n^ght  and  by  day.  What  do  you  think  ? 
— she  actually  proposed  to  take  Fry's 
place  in  my  room  at  night.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  was  down  after  we  came 
here.  That  did  arouse  me.  I  told 
him,  that  if  his  sister  pushed  herself  too 
much  on  me — and  he  knew  I  had  never 
cared  for  her — I  should  apply  for  a  sep- 
aration from  him,  and  be  rid  of  both  of 
them.  I  can't  think  how  I  ever  took 
courage  to  say  it ;  but  Mr.  Carlton  had 
called  that  day,  and  Miss  Canterbury 
had  called,  and  it  seemed  to  make  me 
think  I  was  not  quite  without  friends, 
and  that  I  need  not  be  so  much  afraid. 
We  have  moments  of  inspiration,  you 
know.  It  answered  too,  for  nothing 
more  was  said  about  her  sleeping  in  my 
room.     And  then  the  time  went  on,  and 


I  moved  into  this  wing,  and  had  the 
door  put  up.  She  does  not  know  of  the 
postern  staircase." 

"  Caroline,  you  are  feverish  ;  your  im- 
agination is  excited,"  he  soothingly 
said.  "  Can  I  get  you  anything  to  calm 
you,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  am  no  more  feverish  than  usual. 
And  as  to  excitement — let  any  one  lose 
a  child  in  the  way  I  did,  and  see  if 
their  imagination  would  ever  calm  down 
again." 

"But  you  do  very  wrong  to  indulge 
this  excessive  grief.  I  must  point  out 
your  errors,  Caroline  :  you  know  I  have 
always  spoken  for  your  good,  your  wel- 
fare." 

"  0  yes,  I  know  }7ou  have,"  she  in- 
terrupted, in  a  tone  of  anguished  re- 
morse. "  If  I  had  but  heeded  you ! 
You  told  me  such  a  will  ought  not  to 
be  made ;  you  told  me  that  money 
Wuuld  not  bring  me  good.  If  I  1  > a ■  1  bnt 
heeded  you !  You  told  me  Captain 
Dawkes  was  not  a  fit  husband  for  me. 
Thomas,  I  accepted  him  in  a  fit  of 
angry  passiou  ;  of  pique  against  you." 

"These  eveuts  are  past;  wdiy  recall 
them  ?  " 

"  Why  not  recall  them  ?  I  am  pass- 
ing from  the  world,  and  I  would  not 
that  you  should  think  I  go  blindfold  to 
the  grave  ;  though  I  may  have  lived 
blindfold,  or  partially  so.  When  you 
quitted  the  Rock,  after  that  decisive  in- 
terview had  taken  place  between  us, 
which  I  am  sure  you  remember  as  vivid- 
ly as  I,  I  seemed  not  to  care  what  be- 
came of  me.  I  was  bitterly  angry  with 
you  ;  and  when  the  man  proposed  again 
to  me,  I  believe  I  accepted  him  only  be- 
cause you  had  warned  me  not  to  do  it, 
and  I  hoped  it  would  vex  you.  God 
has  punished  me." 

"It  cannot  be  recalled,  Caroline: 
surely  you  ma}'  let  it  rest,"  he  rejoined. 
"  I  ask  j'ou  why  you  give  way  to  this 
unaccountable  sorrow.  It  is  a  positive 
sin  to  talk  of  grief  sending  yoa  into  the 
grave.  Your  child  is  better  off.  He  is 
at  rest ;  he  is  in  happiness." 

"  I  am  not  grieving  for  him.  I  have 
learnt  to  be  glad  that  he  went  before 
me." 

"  Then  what  is  all  this  ?  You  are  se- 
riously ill  in  mind  as  well  as  in  body  ; 
what  distress  is  it  that  you  are  suffering 
from  ?  " 


234 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL. 


"  I  must  have  inherited  a  touch  of  pa- 
pa's complaint ;  he  died  of  consumption, 
I  believe.  Before  Tom  went,  I  was  very 
ill  and  weak,  as  you  may  remember ; 
and — and — the  shock,  I  suppose,  prevent- 
ed my  rallying.  In  short,  it  is  that 
which  has  killed  me." 

"The  grief?" 

"No,  not  the  grief." 

"The  shock,  then?" 

"  No,  not  the  shock.  It's  the  wretch  - 
e  aess  altogether.  Then  things  are 
preying  upon  me  ;  things  which  I  can- 
not speak  of:  and  whenever  he  is  at  the 
Rock,  I  am  in  a  dreadful  state  of  ner- 
vousness. And  no  one  knows  how  her 
being  here  angers  me  and  worries  me." 

Mrs.  Dawkes's  words  were  by  no 
means  intelligible  to  their  hearer.  He 
could  not  help  remarking,  either,  the 
strange  avoidance  of  her  husband's  and 
Miss  Dawkes's  names. 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  the  half  of  what 
you  say,  Caroline.  What  things  are  they 
that  prey  upon  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dawkes  shuddered. 

"I  tell  you  I  cannot  speak  of  them. 
Thomas,  will  you  serve  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  will.  What  is  it  that  you 
wish  ine  to  do  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dawkes  glanced  over  her  shoul- 
der, in  apparent  dread  of  being  heard. 
Which  was  quite  a  foolish  apprehension  ; 
for  the  south  wing,  enclosed  with  its 
strong  walls,  was  entirely  apart  from  the 
rest  of  the  house,  and  Fry,  the  on  by  pres- 
ent inmate  save  themselves,  sat  in  her 
far-off  chamber,  near  the  green-baize  en- 
trance-door. Caroline  bent  towards  her 
cousin  and  spoke  ;  but  in  so  low  a  tone 
that  he  did  not  catch  the  words,  and  had 
to  ask  her  again. 

'•  I — want — a — will — made,"  she  slow- 
ly repeated. 

"  Have   you  not  made  one  since  the 
child  died  ?  " 
j    "No— no." 

"  Then  it  is  right  and  proper  that  you 
should  make  one.     And  without  delay." 

"  Will  you  contrive  that  I  shall  do  it  ? 
Will  you  help  me  ?  Will  you  take  my 
instructions  and  get  it  executed  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  what  ails  you  ?  "  he  re- 
joined. "  The  shortest  way,  the  best 
way,  will  be  for  you  to  send  for  Mr.  Nor- 
ris,  and  give  your  instructions  to  him." 

"That  is  the  very  thing  I  cannot  do," 
she  said.  "  She  will  take  care  that  1 
don't  make  one." 


He  knew  she  alluded  still  to  Miss 
Dawkes. 

"  But  she  must  let  you  make  one  ;  she 
cannot  hinder  37ou." 

"  Thomas,  she  is  here  to  see  that  I 
don't  make  one.  For  no  other  purpose 
whatever  than  that  is  she  put  here  to 
keep  guard  over  me." 

"  Caroline,  how  can  you  have  taken 
these  ideas  into  your  head  ?  "  he  remon- 
strated, reverting  again  to  the  doubt 
whether  her  nervous  state  did  not  border 
on  insanity. 

"  A  woman  possessing  the  immense 
property  that  you  do  is  bound  to  make  a 
will." 

"  If  I  die  without  one,  it  goes  to  my 
husband — money,  and  land,  and  the 
Rock.  Everything,  nearly,  would  go  to 
him." 

"  Of  course,  if  you  leave  no  will." 

"Then  do  you  not  see  now  why  he 
does  not  want  me  to  make  one;  to/iy  he 
will  not  permit  me  to  make  one  ;  why 
he  puts  his  sister  here,  to  watch  over  me 
that  I  don't  make  one  ?  It  would  be  too 
wearisome  for  him  to  remain  on  guard — 
let  alone  the  issue  we  might  come  to — 
and  so  he  leaves  her  on  duty." 

"  I  hope  you  are  mistaken,"  Thomas 
Kage"  gravely  replied.  "  Major  Dawkes 
must  feel  that  he  has  little  right  to  the 
whole  fortune  of  Mr.  Canterbury." 

"  He  has  no  right  to  it,  and  he  shall 
not  have  it  ! "  she  vehemently  broke 
forth.  "  0  Thomas,  Thomas,"  she  con- 
tinued, changing  her  tone  to  one  of  wail- 
ing, "  why  did  I  not  listen  to  you,  when 
you  begged  me  not  to  suffer  the  money 
to  be  so  left — not  to  inherit  it,  contingent 
on  the  death  of  my  child  ?  " 

"  Hush,  Caroline  !  Do  not,  I  say,  re- 
call the  past." 

"  What  possessed  Mr.  Canterbury  to 
make  so  dangerous  a  will  ?  what  pos- 
sessed my  mother  to  incite  him  to  it,  and 
I  to  second  her?"  she  went  on,  paying 
no  attention  to  the  interruption.  "  I 
wish  it  had  been  burnt ;  I  wish  the  mon- 
ey and  the  Rock  had  been  sunk  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea  !  " 

"  It  was  an  unjust  will,  bordering,  as  I 
think,  on  iniquity  ;  but  why  do  you  call  it 
a  dangerous  one  ?  How  am  I  to  under- 
stand the  term  as  applied  to  Mr.  Canter- 
bury's will  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  understand  it  ? "  she 
asked,  with  pointed  emphasis.  "  I  sit 
here,  in  my  solitude,  in  my  terrible  ner- 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


235 


vousness,  and  dwell  on  many  things,  real 
and  unreal,  on  the  past  and  on  the  fu- 
ture ;  and  I  have  fancied  that  you  fore- 
saw how  it  might  become  dangerous. 
There  was  a  day,  in  this  very  house  when 
you  earnestly  warned  me  against  suffer- 
ing such  a  will  to  stand ;  when  you 
seemed  to  be  buried  in  a  vision  of  the  time 
to  come,  if  I  did  let  it  stand,  and  shrank 
from  it  as  from  a  black  shadow,  from  a 
haunting  dream.  I  have  not  forgotten  it, 
Thomas,  or  your  words." 

Neither  had  he  ;  but  he  did  not  choose 
to  say  so.  The  past  was  past  ;  and  for 
many  reasons  he  thought  it  well  not  to 
bring  it  back  again. 

'•  Caroline,  we  were  speaking  of  the 
real,  not  of  the  ideal.  I  am  unable  to 
comprehend  your  position,  as  you  seem  to 
put  it.  You  are  mistress  of  this  house,  and 
of  its  servants.  It  is  your  own  absolutely ; 
your  husband  has  legalty  no  authority  in 
it.  If  the  presence  of  Miss  Dawkes  is 
not  agreeable  to  you,  politely  request  her 
to  terminate  her  visit.  Try  and  shake 
off  this  nervousness,  my  dear  ;  for  ner- 
vousness it  must  be,  and  nothing  else." 

"  If  I  only  stirred  in  the  matter,  if  I 
only  said  to  her,  Go,  it  would  bring  him. 
They  are  acting  in  concert." 

''  What  if  it  did  ?  Though  he  is  your 
husband,  he  cannot  take  from  you  your 
freedom  of  action.  The  whole  property  is 
yours,  remember ;  not  subject  to  Major 
Dawkes's  control." 

"  But  there  would  be  dreadful  scenes, 
I  say,  and  they  would  shatter  me.  Be- 
sides," she  added,  sinking  her  voice 
and  glancing  round  with  another  of  those 
looks  of  apprehensive  terror,  u  I  might 
be  poisoned." 

"  0,  Caroline  !  " 

"  Tom  was,  you  know,"  she  continued, 
staring  at  him  with  her  wild  eyes.  "  And 
I  must  make  the  will  first." 

Was  she  wandering  now  ?  Mr.  Kage 
mentally  debated  the  question,  and  with 
intense  pain. 

"  I  wish  to  leave  this  wretched  fortune 
— wretched  it  has  been  to  me  and  mine 
— to  its  rightful  owners:  I  wish  tore- 
pair  the  injustice  that  was  committed  on 
the  Miss  Canterburys.  Will  you  advise 
me  whether  Olive — " 

"I  cannot  advise  you  on  the  disposal 
of  your  money,"  he  interrupted,  in  a  voice 
almost  of  alarm  ;  "  neither  will  I  inherit 
any  of  it,  neither  will  I  be  the  executor. 
Leave  it  as  you  think  well  yourself:    I 


must  decline  all  interference.  The  mon- 
ey has  lapsed  to  you,  Caroline ;  my 
trusteeship  is  over ;  do  not  now  request 
me  to  take  it  up  again'." 

"  But  you  will  advise  me  how  to  leave 
my  money  ?  " 

»  No." 

"  Not  advise  me  !  What  can  be  the 
motive  for  your  refusal  ?  " 

"  The  motive  is  of  no  consequence, 
Cai'oline.  Y"ou  have  experience  to  guide 
you  now ;  vou  can  take  advice  of  your- 
self." 

"  But  you  must  have  a  motive.  Tell 
it  me.  If  you  do  not,  the  wondering 
what  it  can  be  will  worry  me  for  days 
and  nights  ;  you  don't  know  how  weak 
I  have  grown.  Thomas,  I  conjure  you, 
tell  it  me." 

He  would  have  preferred  not  to  tell 
her ;  at  least,  during  this  interview. 
But  she  left  him  no  resource.  In  his 
straightforward  truth,  he  spoke  ;  his 
voice  somewhat  low  and  unwilling. 

"  I  am  to  marry  Millicent  Canter- 
bury." 

She  looked  down  upon  her  thin  white 
hands  clasped  together,  and  did  not 
speak.  But  for  the  crimson  hue  that) 
stole  over  her  face  and  neck,  he  would 
have  thought  she  did  not  hear.  Surely 
she  must  love  him  still!  In  spite  of  her 
two  marriages,  hers  must  indeed  have 
been  an  enduring  love. 

"  Well,  be  it  so,"  she  said  at  length. 
"  Thomas,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it ;  or  I 
shall  be  when  the  brunt  of  the  news 
has  a  little  passed.  Do  not  mistake  me  ; 
the  old  remembrances  are  upon  me  to- 
night, or  I  should  not  feel  this.  You 
could  not  have  chosen  a  better  girl  than 
Leta.  Indeed  I  am  glad  of  it ;  I  have 
never  been  so  selfish  as  to  wish  you  not 
to  marry." 

"  You  see,  therefore,  why  I  cannot, 
and  will  not,  advise  as  to  leaving  money 
to  the  Miss  Canterburys,"  explained 
Mr.  Kage,  in  a  very  matter-of-fact  tone. 
"  Individually,-  I  would  prefer  that  you 
did  not,  for  it  may  be  the  means  of  sep- 
arating me  from  Millicent ;  on  the  other 
hand,  they  have  claims  on  their  father's 
estate.     I  cannot  advise  or  interfere." 

'•  Chivalrous  and  honorable  as  usual  ! 
You  are  too  much  so,  Thomas.  Had 
you  been  less  so " 

"  What  then  ?  "  he  asked,  for  she  did 
not  continue. 

"  This  conversation  never  would  have 


2-36 


GEORGE     C  A  X  T  ERBURY'S    W  ILL. 


had  place,  and  my  child  would  be  here 
by  my  side,  and  I  should  not  be  dying." 

What  she  said  was  too  true ;  and  he 
knew  it.  They  had  not  been  able  to 
fight  against  fate.  Little  use,  then,  to 
picture  now  what  might  have  been. 
Caroline  had  played  him  false  to  marry 
a  wealthy  man;  and  all  the  regret  in  the 
world,  and  the  bitter  repentance,  would 
not  alter  it. 

"  I  must  get  a  will  made,"  she  resum- 
ed, breaking  the  silence.  "  Can  you 
show  me  how  it  may  be  done  ?  I  am 
virtually  a  wretched  prisoner,  remem- 
ber." 

He  thought  it  over  for  a  moment. 
Assuming  what  she  said  to  be  a  fact, 
there  was  difficulty  in  the  prospect. 

"  Let  Mr.  Norris  come  to  jTou  in  the 
way  I  have  done  to-night,  and  take  your 
instructions,  Caroline." 

She  appeared  to  catch  eagerly  at  the 
suggestion. 

"  So  he  might !  I  had  not  thought 
of  it.  The  fact  is,  it  was  only  when  I 
heard  you  were  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
I  was  worrying  myself  to  contrive  how 
I  could  get  to  see  you  alone,  that  Fry 
suggested  the  opening  of  the  postern- 
door.  Yes,  yes ;  Norris  is  honest,  and  I 
will  send  for  him,  I  shall  leave  my  hus- 
band nothing,  Thomas." 

"Leave  him  nothing!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Kage,  surprised  out  of  the  remark. 
"Nothing  ?     Would  that  be  justice  ?  " 

"Justice  and  mercy  too.  I  leave  him 
my  silence ;  and  that  is  more  mercy 
than  he  deserves.  He  poisoned  my 
child." 

"  Hush!"  rebuked  Mr.  Kage. 

"  He  poisoned  my  child,"  she  persist- 
ed, beginning  to  tremble. 

The}r  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes. 
Hers  were  fixed,  wild,  bright ;  his,  seri- 
ously questioning. 

"  Caroline,  this  is  an  awfully  grave 
charge." 

"  It  is  a  true  one,"  she  affirmed.  "  I 
have  known  it  all  along.  I  knew  it 
when  the  coroner's  inquest  was  sitting  ; 
I  knew  it  when  you  all  went  to  put  him 
in  the  grave.  He  had  a  bottle  of  lauda- 
num in  his  dressing-room,  but  I  believe 
none  of  the  inmates  of  the  house,  save 
myself,  had  noticed  that  he  had  it ;  and 
lucky  for  him  they  had  not.  That  laud- 
anum bottle  had  been  there  for  weeks, 
untouched ;  but  it  was  missing  from  its 


place  the  evening  before  Tom  died.  I 
looked  for  it,  and  it  was  gone  ;  I  wanted 
some  to  put  to  my  tooth.  Was  it  not 
strange  that  that  ver}r  night,  of  all  oth- 
ers, I  should  have  looked  for  it,  and  but 
that  night?" 

Mr.  Kage  made  no  reply.  He  was 
lost  in  thought. 

"  I  went  to  bed  early  that  night,  at 
eight  o'clock  ;  and  after  I  was  in  bed,  I 
got  up  to  fetch  the  laudanum-bottle  from 
his  dressing-room.  It  was  not  there. 
I  was  amazed  at  its  absence,  because  I 
knew  it  always  was  there,  and  I  had 
seen  it  earlier  in  the  day.  Soon  after- 
wards he  came  in  ;  and  when  he  saw 
me  he  started  like  a  guilty  man,  and 
hurried  something  under  his  coat  as  he 
went  through  to  his  dressing-room.  It 
must  have  been  the  bottle — it  was  the 
bottle  !  The  next  morning  I  saw  the 
bottle  in  its  place  again.  No  one  but 
himself  had  gone  through  my  room  that 
night  ;  and  therefore  I  knew  that  it  was 
he  who  had  replaced  it.  I  thought  noth- 
ing of  it  at  the  moment ;  no,  nor  even 
when  the  alarm  of  the  death  came." 

"  Allowing  all  this  to  be  true — and  I 
cannot  disbelieve  you  —  how  could  he 
have  administered  it  to  the  child  ?  Ju- 
dith never  left  him." 

"  He  did  not  administer  it ;  Judith 
did  that," 

"  Judith  !  "  uttered  Thomas  Kage. 

"  Judith  ;  but  not  intentionally.  She 
believed,  poor  woman,  when  she  gave 
him  his  dessert-spoonful  of  mixture  that 
evening,  that  she  was  giving  him  his 
proper  medicine.  When  she  brought 
the  child  down  to  me,  I  did  not  send  her 
back,  but  kept  her  talking  ;  the  nursery 
was  therefore  vacant.  That  was  his  op- 
portunity. The  mixture -bottle  must 
have  been  then  taken  away,  and  the 
laudanum-bottle  substituted.  0,  I  as- 
sure you,  Thomas,  I  have  gone  over  all 
this  so  often  since  in  my  mind,  that  I 
seem  to  have  seen  it  all  done.  Judith 
gave  him  a  dessert-spoonful  of  the  opi- 
um instead  of  his  proper  medicine.  Ma- 
jor Dawkes  must  have  waited  in  his 
room  opposite  ;  and  when  she  had  shut 
herself  into  the  night-.nursery,  he  went 
softly  in  and  changed  the  bottles  again, 
having  taken  out  the  same  quantity  of 
the  rightful  physic.  I  daresay  he  swal- 
lowed it.  Then  he  came  sneaking  down 
with  the  laudanum-bottle  in  his  hand, 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


237 


little  thinking  I  had  been  searching  for 
it,  or  that  I  was  in  my  room.  I  saw  the 
next  morning  that  some  of  the  contents 
had  been  taken  out." 

"  Were  the  bottles  alike  ?  " 

"  Exactly  alike.  Green-glass  bottles, 
with  about  the  same  quantity  of  stuff 
in  each  ;  and  the  color  of  the  mixture 
and  of  the  laudanum  tallied.  The  la- 
bels were  not  alike,  and  Judith  cannot 
read  writing." 

;'  I  know  she  cannot." 

"  '  Tincture  of  Opium.  Major  Dawkes,' 
was  on  the  one  ;  '  The  Mixture.  Mas- 
ter Canterbury,'  was  on  the  other. 
Some  days  after  the  dreadful  truth  had 
revealed  itself  to  me,  I  had  Judith 
alone,  and  cautiously  questioned  her. 
She  was  in  much  distress,  and  confessed 
that  a  matter  was  preying  on  her  mind. 
It  was  this  :  after  she  had  given  the 
mixture  to  the  child  that  evening,  he 
shook  his  head  and  said  it  was  '  nasty, 
which  had  never  been  his  complaint  be- 
fore. In  putting  in  the  cork  her  eye  fell 
on  the  words  of  the  label,  and  she 
thought  they  looked  different — not  the 
same  she  was  accustomed  to  see ;  but  in 
the  impossibility  (as  she  supposed)  of  its 
being  any  other  label  or  bottle,  she  had 
concluded  it  was  her  fancy.  The  next 
morning  by  daylight,  the  old  familiar 
writing  seemed  to  be  returned  to  the 
bottle.  Not  until  after  the  child  was 
buried,  she  said,  did  this  incident  recur 
to  her  memory.  It  was  strange  that  it 
should  not  ;  but  I  could  not  disbelieve 
her,  for  Judith  was  ever  truthful." 

Did  you  do  well  to  conceal  these  cir- 
cumstances ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Kage,  in  a 
low  tone.  "  They  might  have  been  in- 
vestigated." 

Had  I  known  them — had  they  presen- 
ted themselves  to  m}'  mind  at  the  mo- 
ment of  my  boy's  death,  I  should  inev- 
itably have  proclaimed  them  to  the 
world.  But  Fry  was  hasty  with  her 
opinion  that  he  must  have  died  in  a  fit ; 
the  Major  seconded  it ;  and  I  thought  it 
was  so,  in  my  wild  grief.  When  the 
doctors  had  held  their  post-mortem  ex- 
amination, and  declared  the  cause  of  his 
death  to  be  opium,  the  news  of  which 
was  brought  in  by  Fry,  then  the  truth 
flashed  upon  me —  in  a  confusion  of  ideas 
at  first ;  but,  little  by  little,  each  distinct 
point  grew,  and  stood  out  with  awful 
clearness." 


"  He  came  down  to  my  chambers  that 
night,  asking  me  to  advance  some  of  the 
child's  money,"  murmured  Thomas 
Kage. 

"  0  yes,  that  was  a  part  of  his  cun- 
ning scheme,"  was  Mrs.  Dawkes's  bitter 
answer.  "He  had  laid  his  plans  well, 
be  you  sure  of  that,  to  divert  suspicion 
from  himself.  He  went  to  }'ou,  that  you 
might  testify,  if  needful,  he  was  away  in 
the  evening  j  he  asked  to  borrow  the 
money — knowing  that  you  were  not  like- 
ly to  lend  it — that  it  might  be  assumed 
he  saw  no  prospect  at  that,  the  eleventh 
hour,  of  succeeding  to  my  boy's.  He 
slept  out,  that  it  should  be  seen  he  had 
not  gone  near  Tom  to  harm  him,  and 
hoping  to  be  away  when  the  alarm  oc- 
curred." 

"  And  you  have  not  spoken  of  this  !  " 

"  Never,  until  this  night.  How  could 
I  ?  No  one  suspects  the  part  he  took, 
unless  it  be  Judith,  and — no  doubt — • 
Miss  Dawkes.  Fry  does  not ;  she  would 
abuse  the  doctors  by  the  hour  together 
in  my  presence,  for  saying  Tom  died 
from  opium,  seeing  lie  could  not  have 
got  at  any  ;  but  I  stop  her  always.  Can 
you  wonder,"  added  Caroline  in  an  al- 
tered tone,  "that  I  have  lived  since  in 
fear — in  nervous  dread — and  that  I  dare 
not  provoke  an  open  rupture  with  him  I 
once  called  husband?" 

"  Did  you  ever  hint  at  your  suspicions 
to  him  ?  " 

"  Only  once.  If  ever  I  thought  to  do 
it,  my  tongue  seemed  to  dry  in  my  mouth, 
my  heart  to  sicken.  On  the  daj'  of  the 
inquest,  he  came  in  to  condole  with  me 
after  it  was  over — the  false  hypocrite  ! 
and  I  suddenly  spoke  to  him.  "  That 
bottle  of  laudanum  you  kept  in  your 
dressing-room  was  away  from  it  the  even- 
ing before  Tom  died;  where  was  it?" 
He  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  turned  as 
white  as  ashes  ;  his  lips  were  ghastly 
and  tremulous,  as  they  strove  to  say  it 
was  not  away  from  it,  so  far  as  he  knew. 
That  look  alone  would  be  sufficient  to 
prove  his  guilt.  I  said  no  more  ;  I  only 
gazed  steadily  at  him,  and  he  turned 
away.  I  could  not  be  the  first  to  accuse 
him  ;  he  had  been  my  husband  ;  had  anj' 
one  else  done  so,  I  should  have  said  what 
I  knew.  We  have  lived  an  estranged 
life  since  the-n  ;  to  appearance,  outwardly 
civil.  I  came  here  the  next  day,  with 
my  dreadful  secret ;  he  has  been  down 


238 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


once  or  twice,  and  we  go  through  the 
ceremony  of  haqd-shaking  at  his  arrival 
and  departure  ;  and  she  is  here — my 
keeper." 

Mr.  Kage  leaned  his  head  upon  his 
hand. 

"  Yes,  I  am  here  with  my  dreadful 
secret,"  she  reiterated  ;  "  and  he  is  living 
in  a  whirl  of  gaiety,  of  sin.  I  sometimes 
wonder  whether  the  past  lies  a  burden 
upon  him  also  in  the  silence  of  the  accus- 
ing night." 

"  A  dreadful  secret  indeed  ! "  Thomas 
Kage  echoed,  wiping  his  brow.  "  Caro- 
line, why  did  you  tell  it  me  ?  " 

"  Not  for  you  to  accuse  and  betray 
him ;  not  to  repeat  again.  When  this 
conversation  shall  be  over,  you  can  bury 
it  in  the  solitude  of  your  own  breast,  and 
leave  him  to  his  conscience  and  the  fu- 
ture. But  I  could  not  go  to  my  grave 
without  telling  you  what  has  sent  me 
there." 

Mr.  Kage  sat  thinking — thinking  over 
the  chain  of  events  from  their  commence- 
ment. The  foolish  marriage  of  Mr.  Can- 
terbury with  this  young  girl;  the  unjust 
will ;  the  dangerous  clause  of  the  great 
fortune  reverting  to  her  should  the  child 
die.  Yes,  dangerous  ;  Mrs.  Dawkes  had 
called  it  by  its  right  name.  Dangerous 
if  she  married  a  needy  and  unscrupulous 
second  husband. 

"  O,  but  it  was  an  awful  temptation  !  " 
he  exclaimed  aloud  ;  not  to  her,  but  in 
self-communing.  "  Awful,  awful,  to  such 
a  one  as  Dawkes.     Poor  man  !  " 

"  You  say  *  poor  man  ! '  •  You  pity 
him  ?  " 

"  Not  his  guilt}'-  weakness  in  yielding 
to  it;  not  his  wicked  sin  ;  but  I  pity  him 
for  his  exposure  to  the  temptation.  Bet- 
ter that  Mr.  Canterbury  had  left  his 
money  to  revert  to  his  daughters  after 
the  child  ;  better  that  he  had  left  it  to 
the  county  hospital." 

"  Did  you  think  of  this  horrible  con- 
tingency when  you  urged  me,  almost 
with  a  praj^er,  not  to  inherit  after  my 
child  ?  " 

"  Do  not  recur  to  what  I  thought,"  he 
sharply  cried,  as  if  the  question  struck 
an  unpleasant  chord  within  him.  "  I 
am  given  to  flights  of  fancy,  and  don't 
know  what  I  may  have  thought." 

"  I  will  send  for  Norris,"  she  resumed  ; 
"  he  must  come  in  as  you  came  to-night. 


You  see  now  why  I  dare  not  venture  to 
let  it  be  -known  I  wish  to  make  a  will. 
Major  Dawkes  comes  into  all  after  my 
death  ;  he  sees  that  I  cannot  last  long, 
she  sees  it.  Of  course  they  will  not  let 
me  make  a  will." 

"  Yes,  I  see,  Caroline." 

'•'  Were  I  to  insist  upon  it — were  they 
only  to  suspect  that  I  wished  to  make 
one,  that  I  so  much  as  thought  of  it,  they 
— he — might  put  me  out  of  the  way  as 
he  put  Tom,"  she  said  with  glistening 
eyes. 

It  was  altogether  so  strange  and  sad 
a  thing  that  Thomas  Kage  scarcely 
liked  to  leave  her.  But  it  must  be.  He 
took  her  hands  in  his  when  he  rose  to 
say  farewell,  bending  over  her. 

"  I  shall  come  in  state  to  the  front 
entrance  to-morrow,  Caroline,  and  pay 
you  a  formal  visit,  as  though  we  had  not 
met  since  you  left  London." 

"  Since  the  day  of  my  boy's  funeral  ! 
Do  so.  She  will  be  in  the  room  all  the 
time;  there's  no  chance  of  any  visitor 
being  allowed  to  see  me  alone.  Good- 
night, good-night ;  we  shall  not  meet 
many  more  times  in  this  world  !  " 

"  Caroline,"  he  lingered  to  whisper, 
an  anxious  look  arising  to  his  own  face, 
"  are  you  prepared  for  the  next  ?  " 

"  I  think  of  it  as  a  rest  from  weary 
sorrow  ;  I  think  of  it  as  a  place  of  loving 
pardon  and  peace.  I  wish  I  was  better 
fitted  for  it." 

"  Why  do  you  not  send  for  Mr.  Eu- 
fort  ?  " 

"  She  would  not  let  him  come  to  be 
with  me  alone." 

"  She  must  let  him ;  she  shall  let 
him." 

"  Thomas,  let  me  get  the  will  made 
first,  and  I  shall  be  more  at  ease.  I  am 
in  no  immediate  danger." 

"  Good-night,  my  dear  child.  Keep 
up  your  spirits." 

Mrs.  Dawkes  touched  a  silver  hand- 
bell, and  Fry  came  flying  out  of  a  room 
at  the  end  of  the  corridor,  one  close  to 
the  new  baize  door.  Thomas  Kage  saw 
the  door  as  he  looked  that  way.  Fry 
conducted  him  down  the  dusty  stairs, 
and  out  at  the  rusty  postern  entrance  to 
the  mass  of  entangled  shrubs  ;  and  he 
picked  his  way  through  them  lost  in 
thought,  deeply  pondering  on  the  reve- 
lations his  visit  had  brought  forth. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


£39 


CHAPTER  XXXVII I. 

ON    THE    WATCH. 

An  enemy  could  not  have  said  that 
Keziah  Dawkes  was  unkind  to  her 
brother's  wife.  With  the  exception  that 
she  never  quitted  that  unhappy  lady  for 
more  than  two  minutes  together  through- 
out the  day,  she  was  as  kind  to  her  as 
kind  could  be.  Keziah,  made  of  as  hard 
iron  as  it  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  be, 
could  not  but  have  some  grains  of  com- 
passion for  the  delicate  girl  (she  was  little 
more  than  a  girl  yet)  wasting  away  to 
death  under  her  eyes.  It  might  be  that 
she  had  qualms  of  remorse  also.  Xot  for 
the  watching  :  Keziah  thought  her  sister- 
in-law  none  the  worse  for  that.  Not  on 
her  own  score  at  all ;  but  for  a  certain 
event  that  might  be  lying  on  her  brother's 
conscience,  and  of  whicli  she  strove  to 
drive  out  intruding  suspicions.  They 
were  too  dreadful  even  for  Keziah.  Car- 
oline's grief  for  her  poor  child  was  pitia- 
ble to  witness,  and  Keziah  felt  for  her  in 
regard  to  that. 

When  Mrs.  Dawkes  would  come  clown 
stairs  in  the  morning,  be  it  early  or  be  it 
late,  there  sat  Keziah  waiting  for  her,  and 
beguiling  the  waiting  with  some  ever- 
lasting knitting.  After  that,  she  stuck 
to  Mrs.  Dawkes  throughout  the  day,  her 
very  shadow.  If  Caroline  strolled  out 
in  the  garden,  to  sit  on  the  autumn-win- 
try bench,  wrapped  up  in  furs  (a  rare 
occurrence),  Keziah  and  her  knitting 
went  too ;  when  Caroline  walked  or  drove 
over  to  see  her  mother,  Keziah  was  her 
companion  ;  if,  by  rare  chance,  visitors 
called  at  the  Bock,  Keziah  sat  in  the 
drawing-room  by  the  side  of  its  mistress. 
Only  in  her  own  chamber  was  Caroline 
free.  It  was  this  disagreeable  espionage 
that  caused  her  to  remove  into  the  south 
wing,  and  have  a  barrier-door  erected. 
JS'ot,  at  that  time,  had  the  slightest 
thought  of  the  postern-door,  as  a  possible 
means  of  admittance  to  her  own  friends, 
crossed  her  mind.  It  never  might  have 
been  thought  of,  or  used  as  such,  but  for 
the  happy  suggestion  of  her  maid  Fry. 
Fry  lived  in  a  chronic  state  of  resent- 
ment against  Miss  Dawkes,  and  was 
warmly  attached  to  her  mistress.  Any 
way,  then,  that  she  could  find  to  "  cir- 
cumvent "  the  former  (Fry's  own  word, 
in  her  whispered  confidences  to  the 
butler)  was  more  welcome  to  her  than 
flowers  in  May. 


But  Fry  had  opposed  the  removal  to 
the  south  wing.  Edgar  Canterbury  had 
died  in  those  rooms ;  they  had  never 
been  inhabited  since  ;  and  for  her  mis- 
tress to  go  into  them  she  looked  upon  as 
boding  ill-luck — nothing  less  than  an 
omen  that  she  would  die  in  them,  in  her 
turn.  Keziah  came  to  the  rescue,  and 
said  Mrs.  Dawkes  might  remove  into 
them  if  she  liked — why  not  ?  All  un- 
conscious was  she  of  the  heavy  blow  it 
might  be  the  means  of  eventually  deal- 
ing her  brother.  And  so  poor  Caroline 
took  up  her  abode  in  the  long-unused 
wing  ;  and  very  shortly  afterwards  caused 
that  intervening  door,  covered  with  green 
baize,  to  be  erected,  shutting  out  the 
wing  from  the  rest  of  the  house,  and 
from  Keziah.  Keziah  did  not  care  :  if 
Mrs.  Dawkes  chose  to  pass  part  of  her 
days  in  seclusion,  with  Fry  in  attendance 
upon  her,  why,  let  her;  it  was  only  a  re- 
lief to  Keziah.  She  could  take  care  that 
no  chance  visitor  was  admitted  to  the 
south  wing  unaccompanied  by  herself. 
Never  did  it  enter  into  Keziah's  imagin- 
ation— no,  not  in  its  wildest  dreams — 
that  an  outer  door  existed  to  that  south 
wing.     She  had  never  heard  of  it. 

The  postern-door,  encompassed  hy  the 
wilderness  of  trees  and  shrubs  around, 
was  invisible  to  the  eye.  In  the  midst 
of  this  wilderness  (as  was  related  earli- 
er in  the  story)  stood  the  Lad}*'s  Well ; 
and  this  had  so  sure  a  reputation  for  be- 
ing haunted — the  lady's  ghost,  as  was 
well  known  ;  appearing  at  will,  and 
shrieking  frightfully  on  windy  nights — 
that  no  one  ever  thought  of  penetrating 
to  that  side  of  the  house.  And  there- 
fore, in  the  lapse  of  time,  the  postern- 
door  came  to  be  entirely  forgotten  by 
the  few  who  had  been  cognisant  of  its 
existence.  In  after-life,  Fry  was  wont 
to  say  that  nothing  less  than  a  special 
revelation  had  made  her  remember  it 
the  evening  when  Thomas  Kage  was  at 
Chilling.  But  Keziah  Dawkes  knew 
nothing  of  the  postern -door;  and  when 
her  sister-in-law  was  shut  up  within 
that  wing,  she  supposed  her  to  be  as 
safe  as  if  she  were  in  her  own  presence. 
What  though  Caroline  did  take  freaks 
at  times  to  bar  the  green  door  against 
her  ?  She  was  welcome  to  do  it  for  Ke- 
ziah, who  supposed  it  arose  from  simple 
caprice  or  a  real  desire  for  solitude. 

Caroline  was    correct  in  the    opinion 
she   had    expressed    to   Thomas   Kage, 


240 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


that    what    they    feared    was,   that   she 
might    make    a    will.     Of    course    this 
could   not,  in  the  Major's    interests,  he 
allowed  ;     neither    did    they    intend    it 
should    be.     All    the   watching  was   on 
this  score  :  there  existed  no  other  cause 
for  it.     Keziah  had  little  fear.     Caroline 
seemed  to  be  overwhelmed  with  apathy 
— to  have  no  more  thought  or  care  for 
the  future  disposal  of  her  property  than 
if  it  had   been  a   tract  of  land   in   the 
wilds  of  Africa.     She  seemed  to  care  for 
nothing.     She  had  never  attempted  to 
write    a    letter   since    she    came  to  the 
Rock  ;    her  days  were   passed   in   inert 
sadness — in    one    long    monotony ;    and 
Keziah   believed  this  would  continue  to 
the  end.     As  well,  perhaps,  that  she  did 
not  attempt  to  write  letters  :  they  would 
not  have  been  permitted  to  go  out  of  the 
house  without  a  supervision,  so  that  it 
might    have   come  to   the   same   in   the 
end.       Keziah     watched    always  ;    she 
would  never  relinquish  the  watching  so 
long  as  Caroline  lingered  in  life  ;    but 
she  was  as  sure  as  sure  can   he  that  it 
was  an  entirely  superfluous  precaution. 
And  meanwhile  she  did  not  intend  that 
Mrs.  Dawkes  should  see  she  was  watch- 
ed, and  had  no  suspicion  Caroline  had 
already  detected  it. 

"  What  ever  can  your  mistress  do 
with  herself,  shut  in  all  alone  evening 
after  evening,  with  not  a  soul  to  speak 
to  ?  "  Keziah  had  said  to  Fry  only  a 
day  or  two  before  this  visit  of  Thomas 
Kage's.  "  She  must  be  frightfully 
lonesome." 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,  Miss 
Dawkes,  she  has  been  nothing  else  but 
lonesome  ever  since  the  poor  boy  died," 
was  Fry's  answer.  "  As  to  what  she 
does,  she  mostly  lies  on  the  sofa,  some- 
times with  a  book,  oftener  without  one. 
All  she  wants  is  to  lie  in  quiet,  where 
folks  won't  come  in  to  bother  her  with 
talking." 

A  hint  for  Keziah.  Fry's  words  were 
j  honest ;  and  Miss  Dawkes  was  aware  she 
had  always  been  objectionable  to  her 
young  sister-in-law.  Caroline  dared 
not  order  her  out  of  the  house,  as  she 
would  have  done  in  former  days.  In 
her  broken  spirit,  and  with  the  remem- 
brance of  the  child's  death  and  its  at- 
tendant circumstances  ever  upon  her, 
she  had  grown  to  be  terribly  afraid  of 
Keziah  and  Baruaby.     She  removed  to 


the  south  wing  from  no  other  motive 
than  to  be  sometimes  free  of  the  for- 
mer's presence,  and  stayed  there  as  a 
refuge.  But  as  the  days  went  on,  and 
she  was  drawing  (as  she  fulty  believed) 
nearer  to  death,  the  obligation  to  make 
a  will  pressed  itself  with  greater  urgen- 
cy upon  her,  until  it  seemed  to  grow  in- 
to a  religious  duty  that  she  must  not 
fail  in  if  she  would  find  peace  in 
Heaven. 

A  fine  bright  morning — the  one  fol- 
lowing the  secret  visit  of  Mr.  Kage — 
and  Keziah  Dawkes  sat  at  her  solitary 
but  sumptuous  breakfast  full  of  compla- 
cency. Caroline  took  hers  in  her  own 
chamber.  Fry  urged  her  to  take  it  in 
bed  ;  but  there  seemed  to  be  ever  a  rest- 
lessness upon  her  that  prevented  hor 
lying  long  once  morning  had  dawned. 
Sitting  in  her  arm-chair  by  the  fhe, 
partially  dressed  only,  and  wrapped  in 
her  dressing-gown  of  lavender  silk,  Mis. 
Dawkes  generally  took  her  breakfast 
from  the  small  low  stand  drawn  close 
before  her. 

"I  wonder  what  she'll  do  to-day?" 
thought  Keziah,  as  her  meal  over,  she 
sat  with  her  head  upon  her  hand.  "  She 
said  something  yesterday  about  wanting 
to  call  on  the  Miss  Canterburys.  I'm 
sure  I  hope  she'll  not.  '  Don't  let  hor 
get  intimate  with  those  women,'  sa  d 
Barby  to  me  when  he  was  down  hei:e 
last;  and  he  is  quite  right.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  she  will  call,  I  suppose 
she  must :  it  may  not  do  to  draw  the 
reins  too  tight.  I  wish  to  goodness  the 
downright  cold  weather  would  set  in  ! ' 

Bising  from  her  chair,  Keziah  gave  a 
shake  to  the  folds  of  her  gray-merino 
morning-dress  with  its  black  trimmings, 
and  passed. out  to  betake  herself  to  the 
south  wing.  Ascending  the  stairs,  she 
went  through  the  picture-gallery  to  a 
small  corridor  which  brought  her  to  the 
green-baize  door.  Opening  it  at  will, 
she  was  in  the  south  wing.  It  contained 
four  rooms  only,  and  a  dark  lumber-clos- 
et, paneled  with  oak,  in  which  recepta- 
cle were  stowed  away  sundry  articles  that 
had  belonged  to  Edgar  Canterbury.  The 
door  of  the  staircase  descending  to  the 
postern  entrance  was  in  this  closet;  and 
Keziah  had  seen  it  one  day  that  she  chose 
to  take  a  look  round  on  Mrs.  Dawkes's 
first  removal  ;  but  it  looked  exactly  like 
one  of  the  panels,  and  Keziah  suspected 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


241 


nothing.  Of  these  four  rooms  two  were 
Caroline's — her  sitting-  and  bed-rooms  ; 
the  small  one  next  the  baize-door  Fry  sat 
in  ;  the  fourth  was  not  used.  Keziah 
walked  along  the  passage,  carpeted  late- 
ly, and  knocked  at  Mrs.  Dawkes's  door. 

"  Come  in,"  came  the  faint,  spiritless 
answer. 

Caroline  sat  iu  the  elbow-chair,  in  the 
pretty  silk  gown,  her  golden  hair  falling 
over  it  in  curly  waves,  as  it  was  mostly 
let  fall  now.     Keziah  took  her  hand. 

"  How  are  you,  my  dear,  this  morn- 
ing ?  » 

"  0,  about  the  same,  I  think,"  was  the 
listless  reply.  "I've  not  coughed  much 
to-night.     It's  very  fine — is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Beautifully  fine ;  but  so  sharp  and 
cold.  I  don't  think  it  will  do  for  you  to 
venture  into  the  air  to-day,  Caroline." 

lt  I  am  not  thinking  of  venturing  into 
it,  that  I  know  of,"  returned  Caroline 
peevishly.  "  I  shall  see  when  I  come 
down." 

"  And,  my  dear,  is  there  anything 
particular  that  you  could  fancy  for  your 
luncheon  ?  " 

"  No." 

A  few  more  of  these  questions  and  an- 
swers, a  little  chat  on  Keziah's  part — 
items  of  news  she  had  read  in  the  jour- 
nal last  night — and  then  she  withdrew  ; 
and  Caroline  was  left  alone,  to  have  her 
dressing  completed  by  Fry.  About 
twelve  o'clock  she  went  downstairs,  dress- 
ed for  the  day  in  her  black  silk,  her  hair 
gathered  up  in  order.  Keziah  drew  a 
warm  chair  to  the  fire,  and  hastened  to 
bring  one  of  the  rich-painted  white-vel- 
vet foot-stools.  Close  upon  this  the  old 
doctor  came  in.  He  had  been  medical 
attendant  to  the  Rock  as  long  as  the 
Canterburj's  had  inhabited  it — a  hale 
simple-minded  gentleman,  turned  seven- 
ty now,  with  fresh-colored  cheeks  and 
white  hair.  Mr.  Owen's  daily  visits 
were  the  only  break  in  Caroline's  monot- 
onous life.  As  he  sat  there  to-day,  tell- 
ing of  various  out-door  interests,  he  men- 
tioned the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Dunn  and  of 
Mr.  Kage. 

Caroline's  cheeks  grew  scarlet,  know- 
ing that  she  had  to  appear  as  if  it  were 
neios  ;  and  her  attempt  at  doing  so  was 
rather  a  poor  one ;  but  Keziah  failed  to 
notice  :  in  her  own  intense,  and  not 
pleasurable,  surprise  she  observed  noth- 
ing. 

15 


"  Mr.  Kage ! "  exclaimed  Keziah. 
"  What ! — Thomas  Kage  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  don't  know  any  other  Mr. 
Kage,'  was  the  surgeon's  answer.  "  He 
got  here  yesterday  evening,  he  tells  me, 
and  is  staying  at  the  inn." 

"  But,  Mr.  Owen,  what  has  he  come 
for?" 

"  To  see  the  old  place  again,  I  suppose, 
Miss  Dawkes.     I  didn't  ask  him." 

Keziah  lapsed  into  silence,  pondering 
over  certain  interests  with  herself.  She 
thought  it  very  undesirable  that  any 
communication  should  take  place  be- 
tween Mr.  Kage  and  Caroline,  and  won- 
dered what  ill  wind  could  have  blown 
him  to  Chilling  just  now.  Who  was  to 
know  that  he,  connected  as  he  had  been 
with  the  child's  property,  might  not 
get  urging  his  cousin  to  make  a  will  ? 

"  Of  course,  he  will  come  to  call  on 
me,"  suddenly  spoke  Caroline,  the  first 
words  she  had  uttered.  "  Mr.  Owen,  if 
you  see  him  tell  him  that  he  must  not 
go  away  without  calling  on  me." 

Rather  lame  words ;  as  Keziah  might 
have  thought,  but  that  she  was  so  pre- 
occupied with  her  own  reflections.  For 
Thomas  Kage  to  come  to  Chilling  and 
not  call  to  see  Caroline  would  have  been 
an  anomaly. 

When  Mr.  Owen  left,  Keziah,  as  was 
her  frequent  custom,  went  with  him  to 
the  hall.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  evin- 
cing much  anxiety  that  Caroline's  health 
should  be  restored,  her  life  prolonged. 

"No,  I  do  not  think  her  any  better, 
Miss  Dawkes,"  was  the  doctor's  answer 
to  the  query  put ;  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment Fry,  happening  to  see  them  from 
the  back  of  the  hall,  came  forward  to 
join  in  the  colloquy.  u  Looks  brighter, 
you  fancy  ?  Nonsense  !  She's  flushed, 
if  you  will  ;  flushed  with  nervousness 
and  sleeplessness.  I  tell  you  she  is 
nearly  as  weak  as  a  woman  can  be,  my 
dear  madam,  short  of  absolute  helpless- 
ness. The  poor  young  thing  is  eating 
away  her  heart  with  grief  for  her  child  ; 
and  my  emphatic  opinion  is — and  has 
been,  you  know,  Miss  Dawkes,  for  some 
time — that  the  solitude  she  lives  in  is  not 
good  for  her." 

"  And  so  I  say,"  put  in  Fry,  who 
did  not  at  all  like  the  solitude  on  her 
own  account.  "  To  mope  all  alone  can- 
not be  good  for  any  one.  Sire  never  does 
an  earthly  thing  but  read  a  bit — as  I've 


242 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


told  you,  Mr.  Owen — and  that  not  for 
five  minutes  together.  But  if  she  won't 
he  roused,  whv,  she  won't — and  there 
it  is." 

u  Ah,"  concluded  the  doctor,  as  he  took 
his  departure,  "  it's  one  of  those  sad 
cases,  I'm  afraid,  that  all  our  care  and 
skill,  exert  them  as  we  will,  are  unable 
to  touch." 

A  comforting  assurance  for  the  inter- 
ests of  Barnaby  Dawkes.  Keziah  heard 
it  with  an  unruffled  face,  and  turned 
indoors. 

The  next  visitor  to  make  his  appear- 
ance was  Thomas  Kage.  The  sun  was 
at  its  meridian  height  when  he  was 
shown  in,  and  poor  Caroline  sat  where 
its  rays  could  fall  on  her  wan  face.  She 
seemed  strangely  passive  ;  a  little  faint 
coloring  might  flush  into  the  face,  but 
she  did  not  rise  from  her  chair ;  only  let 
him  take  her  hand  in  silence.  The  emo- 
tion of  the  meeting  had  spent  itself  the 
previous  night ;  Caroline,  besides,  was 
afraid  lest  an  incautious  word  should  be- 
tray that  it  had  taken  place,  and  so  kept 
still.  Keziah  Dawkes,  sitting  quite  in- 
conveniently near,  was  agreeably  sur- 
prised at  the  apathetic  character  of  the 
inverview. 

Keziah  talked.  Mr.  Kage  talked. 
Caroline  scarcely  spoke  a  word.  But 
the  conversation  turned  on  commonplace 
nothings  ;  and  so  far  as  Keziah  could 
see,  Mr.  Kage's  visit  to  Chilling  had  been 
made  without  reference  to  Mrs.  Dawkes. 
She  would  have  liked  to  knit  a  thanks- 
giving for  it  into  her. knitting. . 

"  Caroline,"  he  said,  "  do  you  know 
that  you  are  looking  quite  painfully 
thin  ?  » 

"  Yes  ;  painfully  so ;  you  have  used 
the  right  word,  Thomas.  I  know  it  more 
and  more  every  day  when  they  dress  me, 
for  my  things  hang  upon  me  now  like 
bags." 

"You  should  have  some  change; 
staying  in  this  solitude  at  the  Rock  can- 
not be  good  for  you.  Miss  Dawkes,  I 
think  you  might  have  perceived  this  be- 
fore, and  suggested  to  Major  Dawkes 
that  something  should  be  tried." 

Miss  Dawkes  let  her  knitting  fall  on 
her  gown,  and  stared  at  Caroline  with 
a  face  of  concern,  as  if  she  saw  the 
signs  of  sickness  for  the  first  time.  As 
her  eye  met,  quite  accidentally,  that  of 
Mr.  Kage,  a  vivid    recollection    of    the 


interview  she  had  once  held  with  him 
in  her  sick  despair  flashed  into  her 
mind,  bringing  a  tinge  to  her  leaden 
cheek.  Perhaps  she  thought  of  the  con- 
trast between  Barnaby's  hopeless  con- 
dition then  and  his  flourishing  state 
now;  or — perhaps  the  flush  arose  be- 
cause she  feared  Mr.  Kage  must  be  think- 
ing of  it. 

"Caroline  does  look  thin;  unusually 
so  to-day,"  she  quietly  replied  ;  "  I  hope 
a  little  time  will  see  an  improvement. 
She  is  unwilling  to  stir  from  home." 

"  1  shall  never  stir  from  home  until  I 
am  carried  out  of  it,"  interposed  Caro- 
line. "  What  does  it  matter  where  I  am 
— here  or  elsewhere  ?  It  won't  be  for  so 
very  long." 

"  But,  Caroline,  you  should  not  in- 
dulge this  kind  of  thought,"  said  Mr. 
Kage,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  do  not  wish  to  live. 
And  if  I  did  wish  it,  it  would  be  all  the 
same,  for  I  know  that  nothing  can  pro- 
long my  existence.  When  they  took  my 
boy's  life,  they  virtually  took  mine." 

The  last  sentence  was  evidentl}'  not 
spoken  with  any  invidious  meaning. 
Mr.  Kage  made  no  observation  ;  Keziah 
was  picking-up  some  stitches  that  had 
dropped. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  to  Tom.  When 
he  used  to  wish  to  be  with  the  angels,  I 
wondered  greatly.  I  could  not  under- 
stand it.  But  I  wish  it  now  myself — to 
go  away  and  be  with  the  angels — and 
with  him." 

Keziah  lifted  her  eyes  and  telegraph- 
ed a  confidential  look  to  Mr.  Kage.  It 
meant  to  say,  "  Don't  notice  her ;  this 
comes  of  low  spirits."  He  made  no  an- 
swering sign  :  he  believed  it  came  of  tho 
truth — and  that  she  was  following  her 
little  son  as  quickly  as  was  possible. 

"  Caroline,  do  you  see  Mr.  Rufort  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  But  you  ought  to  do  so.  Speaking 
in  a  worldly  point  of  view  only,  his  vis- 
it would  do  you  good ;  he  is  a  very  agree- 
able man.  And — if  there  be  any  graver 
necessity — " 

"  The  last  time  he  came,  Miss  Dawkes 
sent  word  out  I  was  too  poorly  to  be 
seen,"  interrupted  Caroline. 

"  And  so  you  were,  my  dear,"  cried 
that  affectionate  lady  in  a  sweetly  sooth- 
ing tone. 

"  And  the  time  before  that  you  went 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


243 


out  and  met  him,  and  he  turned  back 
again  ;  and  another  time  you  told  me  he 
had  been  to  tbe  cottages,  on  the  common 
where  the  scarlet-fever  was,  and  that  it 
would  not  do  for  him  to  come  in  to  me 
then,"  quietly  went  on  Caroline. 

Mr.  Kage  turned  his  luminous  eyes  on 
Miss  Dawkes.  Questioning  eyes  just 
then. 

"  My  dear  Caroline,  Mr.  Rufort  can 
come  to  you  every  day,  if  you  like,"  said 
the  guardian  dragon,  who  felt  scared  out 
of  the  best  part  of  her  equanimity  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Kage.  I'll  drop  him  a 
note,  my  dear,  to-daj'." 

A  little  more  conversation  bringing 
forth  no  particular  fruit,  and  then  lunch- 
eon was  announced.  Mr.  Kage  rose  to 
leave,  declining  the  invitation  to  stay. 
Caroline  got  up  as  he  took  her  hands. 
She  was  visibly  agitated. 

"  Shall  I  see  you  again,  Thomas  ? 
Shall  I  ever  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  Ever  ? — yes,  I  hope  so.  Not  this 
time,  I  fear,  for  I  leave  for  London  to- 
morrow morning.  You  can  write  to  me 
news  of  how  you  go  on,  and — " 

tl  I  never  write,"  interrupted  Caroline. 
°  It  is  too  much  exertion  for  me  now. 
I  have  not  written  a  word  to  anybody, 
Thomas,  since  the  blow  fell." 

"  Perhaps  Miss  Dawkes,  then,  will 
drop  me  a  line,  should  there  be  any 
change,"  he  rejoined,  glancing  at  that 
lady.  "  Should  you  need  me  in  any  way, 
Caroline,  I  will  come." 

Miss  Dawkes  graciously  acceded  : 
promising  and  vowing  to  write  on  any 
and  every  occasion  that  Mr.  Kage  could 
possibly  be  wished  for.  Without,  how- 
ever, having  the  smallest  intention  of 
doing  it. 

"  Why  are  you  going  so  soon  ?  "  re- 
sumed Caroline.  "  I  think  you  might 
take  this  one  meal  with  me." 

"  I  agreed  to  take  it  at  Miss  Canter- 
bury's." 

"  As  you  please,  of  course.  I  am 
nothing  to  any  one  now,  and  shall  soon 
be  less." 

Her  subdued  voice  spoke  of  pain,  hot 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  Thomas  Kage 
held  out  his  arm  to  lead  her  to  the  din- 
ing-room, and  sat  down  by  her  side. 
His  heart  smote  him  for  the  unkindness 
he  would  have  committed.  Never  again, 
in  all  probability,  would  the  opportunity 
be  afforded  him  of  taking  the  meal  with 
her  ;  whereas  he  would  most  likely  often 


take  it  in  future  times  and  seasons  with 
the  Miss  Canterburys. 

And  she  was  gratified :  there  was  no 
doubt  of  that.  A  soft  pink  shone  on  her 
cheeks,  a  light  in  her  eyes ;  and  she 
talked  a  little.  Keziah,  almost  ignored, 
glanced  up  again  and  again  surrepti- 
tiously from  her  place  below,  as  she  rev- 
eled in  the  delicacies  provided. 

But  Caroline  ate  nothing.  The  wing 
of  a  partridge  was  on  her  plate,  but  she 
merely  toyed  with  it ;  and  the  pink  faded 
again,  and  the  bright  eyes  grew  dim. 
Every  soothing  attention  that  Thomas 
Kage  could  give,  he  did  give.  Perhaps 
the  remembrance  of  the  first  dinner  he 
had  ever  eaten  in  this  magnificent  room, 
when  she  was  by  his  side,  but  not  then 
the  Rock's  mistress,  lay  on  both  of  them. 
Could  they  have  foreseen  at  that  happy 
banquet  the  fruits  that  a  few  years  would 
bring  forth  !  Time  does  indeed  work 
strange  changes. 

The  meal  over,  Mr.  Kage,  preparing 
finally  to  depart,  held  out  his  hand  again 
to  Caroline.  Instead  of  responding  to 
it,  she  took  his  arm,  and  went  with  him 
outside  the  door.  Keziah  came  flying 
up  with  a  warm  cloak — the  ostensible 
plea  —  and  stuck  herself  close  to  Caro- 
line's side.  It  was  a  warm  lovely  day 
for  late  autumn  ;  quite  a  contrast  to 
the  cold  of  the  preceding  one,  the  wind 
— what  slight  wind  there  was — being  in 
its  softest  quarter.  Mr.  Kage  turned  his 
steps  to  the  right,  towards  the  side  gate. 
"  Why  are  you  going  this  way,  Thom- 
as ?  " 

"  I  shall  cross  over  to  your  mamma's 
cottage,  Caroline.  I  must  see  her  this 
afternoon,  and  this  is  the  nearest  way." 
At  the  gate  to  which  they  walked  in 
silence,  Caroline  halted,  not  losing  his 
arm.  Miss  Dawkes,  making  pretty  re- 
marks about  the  scenery  and  the  weath- 
er, was  patient  as  any  tame  lapdog. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  with  you,  Thomas. 
I  can  walk  as  far  as  that." 

This  did  arouse  Miss  Dawkes.  In 
the  first  place,  the  continued  companion- 
ship with  Thomas  Kage  was  not  desira- 
ble ;  every  minute  she  was  on  greater 
thorns  lest  he  might  accidentally  hit  on 
so  undesirable  a  topic  of  conversation  as 
the  ultimate  disposal  of  the  vast  proper- 
ty on  which  he  trod.  In  the  second, 
Keziah  had  nothing  on  her  head,  and 
was  very  subject  to  face-ache. 

"  Walk   to   Mrs.  Kage's  ! "     she    ex- 


244 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


claimed  almost  with  a  scream.  "  My 
dear  Caroline,  you  must  not  attempt  it. 
The  last  time  you  could  hardly  get 
home  ;  that's  a  fortnight  ago,  and  you 
are  weaker  since  then." 

"  But  I  had  not  my  cousin's  arm  to 
lean  upon,  Miss  Dawkes,"  was  the  cold 
answer. — "  Thomas,  I  should  like  to  go, 
if  you  will  not  mind  the  trouble  of 
walking  back  with  me.  I  feel  that  it 
might  do  me  good." 

Without  a  word  of  dissent  he  took 
her  through  the  gate,  and  bade  her  lean 
all  her  weight  upon  him.  Had  there 
never  been  any  feeling  between  them 
but  that  arising  from  relationship,  he 
might  have  passed  his  arm  round  her 
waist  to  help  her  on  her  vray.  But  the 
very  consciousness  of  what  had  been 
had  made  him  throughout  her  married 
life  more  carefully  respectful  to  her. 
And  so  they  walked  along — Caroline  in 
her  warm  woolen  cloak  and  hood,  Kezi- 
ah  in  nothing. 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  necessity 
for  you  to  come,  Miss  Dawkes,"  said 
Caroline,  stopping  to  speak.  "  Mr. 
Kage  will  take  care  of  me." 

"  0,  my  dear,  I  couldn't  be  so  unkind 
as  suffer  you  to  go  alone,"  returned  Ke- 
ziah.     "  Don't  mind  me." 

"  I  am  not  alone.  You  have  no  bon- 
net on." 

"  It  is  quite  delightful,  dear,  to  be 
without  a  bonnet  this  sweet  day.  I'm 
sure  it's  like  summer,"  responded  Ke- 
ziah,  shivering  just  a  little,  and  wishing 
Mrs.  Dawkes  could  be  taken  with  a  fit,  or 
any  other  ailment  that  might  stop  the 
expedition.  "  Mr.  Kage,  how  is  your  sis- 
ter Charlotte  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Lowther  ?  Quite  well,  and 
busy  and  happy  as  usual  with  her  many 
children." 

"  Does  Mr.  Lowther  get  on  any  bet- 
ter?" continued  Keziah  in  a  tone  of 
compassion. 

"Thank  you,  he  does.  Lowther  has 
turned  the  lane  at  last,  and  is  in  a  fair 
way  of  accumulating  a  fortune.  Mrs. 
Garston's  legacy  to  his  wife  has  been  the 
means  of  effecting  it." 

"0!"    said  Keziah. 

They  came  to  the  barrier  in  the  field 
where  the  stile  used  to  be.  It  was  a  gate 
now.  How  vividly  the  spot  brought 
back  that  unhappy  day  to  Thomas  Kage, 
when    he    had   found    Caroline    talking 


there  with  George  Canterbury,  and  the 
blow  she  had  dealt  himself  within  a  few 
minutes  of  it !  He  had  never  been  the 
same  man  since.  And  she,  the  vain 
heartless  girl,  had  grown  into  this  poor, 
sickly,  spiritless  shadow,  leaning  on  his 
arm,  soon,  very  soon  to  die. 

Mrs.  Kage  was  a  worse  spectacle — a 
miserable  dried-up  mummy,  who  had 
some  little  remains  of  mind  left :  but  no 
capability  of  comfort  in  life.  She  could 
not  eat  and  drink  as  she  used;  that  had 
remained  her  chief  solace,  and  that  was 
leaving  her.  She  sat  huddled  up  in  her 
chair  in  the  bedroom,  close  to  the  fire,  and 
was  the  veriest  object  Mr.  Kage  had  ever 
looked  upon.  For  a  moment  he  started 
back.  No  rouge  now,  no  teeth,  no  false 
hair  \  when  mortals  get  very  near  the 
grave,  these  adjuncts  are  left  off.  She  was 
wrapped  up  in  an  old  blue -silk  cloak 
lined  with  ermine,  that  had  once  been 
young  Mrs.  Canterbury's;  her  palsied 
fingers  kept  catching  at  the  fastening 
cord  and  tassels.  0,  what  a  wreck  it  was  ! 
What  a  wreck  both  were  !  What  good 
had  George  Canterbury's  money,  that 
they  so  schemed  for,  brought  to  either? 
Thomas  Kage  could  not  help  a  fancy 
coming  over  him  that  it  must  have  en- 
tailed evil. 

Blinking  upwards,  she  at  length  recog- 
nised her  visitors.  Caroline  and  Mr. 
Kage  sat  down  by  her;  Keziah  put  her- 
self on  the  other  side,  nearby  into  the  fire. 
The  sight  of  Thomas  Kage  appeared  to 
re-awaken  the  palsied  woman  to  memories 
and  interests. 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?  "  she 
suddenly  asked,  touching  Caroline,  but 
addressing  Mr.  Kage. 

11 I  do  not  know.  I  am  grieved  to  see 
her  looking  so  ill." 

"  She's  dying.  I  know  it.  Every 
time  she  comes  to  see  me  there's  less  life 
in  her. — What  do  you  do  to  her — you 
and  that  false  brother  of  yours  ?  " 

The  latter  query  was  directed  with  a 
raised  voice  and  menacing  gesture  to 
Miss  Dawkes.  That  lady,  receiving  it 
in  silence,  stared  a  little  ;  it  took  her  by 
surprise. 

"  I'd  like  you  to  ask  it,  Thomas ;  and 
to  require  an  answer  from  them.  I  can't, 
and  Fve  got  nobody  here  to  do  it  for  me, 
or  to  speak  to.  They  are  killing  her  be- 
tween them.  He'll  get  all  the  money, 
you  know." 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


245 


Keziah's  gray  face  took  a  tinge  of  pur- 
ple. This  turn  in  the  conversation  was 
by  no  means  agreeable.  Caroline  was 
the  one  to  break  the  silence. 

"  Mamma,  do  not  let  my  state  of  health 
trouble  you.  I  am  as  happy  at  the  Rock 
as  I  should  be  anywhere  else  ;  happier 
perhaps.  Major  Dawkes  has  gone  his 
own  way  this  many  a  day,  and  I  have 
gone  mine.  As  to  Miss  Dawkes  here, 
she  is  as  attentive  to  me  as  can  be." 

Mrs.  Kage  blinked  out  at  the  three 
and  shook  her  head.  The  matter  was 
too  complicated  for  her  weakened  mind 
to  deal  with  or  retain  long.  Again  she 
bent  towards  Thomas  Kage,  and  lowered 
her  voice  to  a  semi-whisper. 

"  If  the  time  could  come  over  again, 
Thomas,  I'd  not  urge  her  to  marry  into 
the  Rock.  We  might  have  been  better 
off  had  we  stayed  as  we  were.  Where's 
the  boy  ?  " 

"  The  boy  !  "  stammered  Mr.  Kage, 
all  too  conscious  of  the  secret  that  lay 
upon  him. 

"  What  did  he  die  of,  that  sweet  little 
boy  ?  I  have  dark  dreams  about  it,  I  can 
tell  you.  I  wonder  if  the  Major  has?  " 
Caroline  rose,  pleading  fatigue.  Ke- 
ziah — her  face  a  bright  purple  now 
— glanced  round  to  see  if  that  curious 
hint  affected  the  company,  and  thought 
not,  which  was  satisfactory.  One  thing 
Keziah  did  not  bargain  for — the  strange- 
ly-expressive look  that  sat  in  Mr.  Kage's 
eyes,  as  her  glance  happened  to  meet  his. 
Keziah  had  felt  cold  outside  from  lack  of 
a  bonnet ;  she  turned  far  colder  now. 

They  got  safely  out  from  the  presence 
of  the  poor  old  woman,  who  seemed  to 
have  taken  up  some  undesirable  fancies, 
and  whose  last  words  were  a  loud  lamen- 
tation over  her  daughter's  ill-starred 
marriage  with  Barnaby  Dawkes.  It  was 
now  that  Thomas  Kage  contrived  to  get 
a  couple  of  minutes'  private  conversation 
with  Caroline,  in  spite  of  Keziah's  dra- 
gon-like precaution.  That  bonnetless 
lady,  not  daring  to  risk  uncovered  that 
same  cold  walk  back  again,  stayed  behind 
to  borrow  a  shawl  of  Mrs.  Kage's  maid  : 
and  the  others  went  on  together. 

In  a  few  clear,  concise,  but  rapid 
words,  Thomas  Kage  inquired  whether 
Caroline  would  wish  to  be  anywhere 
else  than  at  the  Rock  —  whether  she 
would  choose  to  be  an  entirely  free 
agent,  and  relieved  of  the  espionage  of 


Miss  Dawkes  ;  if  so,  he  undertook  that 
it  should  be  at  once  accomplished.  The 
secret  he  possessed  gave  him  the  power 
to  act  for  her  welfare  in  any  way  she 
pleased  ;  and  the  Major  should  not  dare 
to  lift  voice  or  finger  in  opposition. 
But  Caroline  shook  her  head  and  refus- 
ed ;  all  she  wanted  was  to  be  left  in 
peace  to  the  end. 

The  end !  Mr.  Kage  had  made  it  his 
business  to  see  the  surgeon,  Owen,  that 
morning,  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Dawkes's 
state,  and  inquired  whether  anything 
could  be  done  for  her.  Nothing  at  all, 
the  doctor  answered ;  it  was  too  late. 
She  was  dying  of  a  complication  that 
Mr.  Owen  could  not  well  understand — 
chest-weakness  and  grief  and  a  kind  of 
nervous  irritabilit}'  ;  dying  slowly,  no 
doubt,  but  quite  surely.  Neither  Mr. 
Kage,  nor  any  other  anxious  friend  could 
arrest  the  fiat.  With  this  knowledge 
within  him,  Thomas  Kage  could  not 
urge  any  removal  upon  her. 

The  last  confidential  word  was  spoken 
as  Keziah's  footsteps  were  heard. 
When  she  came  hurrying  up,  a  shawl 
pinned  over  her  head,  Mr.  Kage  was 
talking  about  the  white  clouds  floating 
gently  across  the  deep-blue  sky.  Ke- 
ziah began  pathetically  to  deplore  the 
"  wandering  state  "  of  poor  dear  Mrs. 
Kage.  Mrs.  Kage's  daughter  agreed 
that  it  was  very  pitiable.  Not  for  the 
world  would  Caroline  have  aroused-  any 
suspicions  in  Keziah  ;  for  who  could 
tell  what  might  come  of  such  ?  The 
one  earnest  desire  lay  on  her  mind  and 
heart  like  a  nightmare — to  succeed  in 
getting  a  will  made. 

"  God  bless  and  keep  you,  my  dear 
Caroline  !  "  were  the  murmured  words 
of  Thomas  Kage,  as  he  stood  to  say 
farewell  when  they  reached  the  Rock. 
"  I  shall  see  you  again,  I  hope,  some 
time." 

''Yes;  in  heaven,"  she  answered, 
bursting  into  tears.  "  Thank  you  for 
your  life-long  kindness  to  me,  Thomas  ; 
thank  you  for  ever." 

And  in  all  the  phases  of  their  many 
meetings  and  separations,  never  had 
Thomas  Kage's  heart  ached  worse  than 
it  did  now,  when  he  wrung  her  hands, 
and  quitted  her  for  the  last  time.  His 
career  in  life,  so  to  say,  was  beginning  : 
hers  was  ending. 

0  that  miserable  will  of  George  Can- 


246 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


terbury's!     What  good  had  it  done  to 
anybody  ?   what  ill  not  wrought  ? 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

SEARCHING    FOR    FENCING-STICKS. 

Keziah  Dawkes  stood  at  the  en- 
trance-door of  the  Rock,  in  the  light  of 
the  afcernoou  sun.  It  might  have  been 
thought  that  she  was  standing  there  to 
admire  the  view,  so  beautiful  as  seen 
from  that  elevated  spot.  Perhaps  she 
was;  and  speculating  upon  the  fast  ap- 
proaching period  when  her  beloved 
brother  Barby  —  beloved  still,  as  few 
brothers  have  been,  in  spite  of  his  many 
sins,  real  or  suspected,  against  Keziah 
and  the  world  in  general — should  have 
this  fine  domain  in  actual  absolute  posses- 
sion. Her  mood  was  one  of  complacency. 
Thomas  Kage  had  gone  away  without 
any  undesirable  interference  —  he  was 
barely  out  of  sight  even  yet — and  so  far 
as  Keziah  could  understand,  he  was  not 
likely  to  trouble  them  with  a  visit  soon 
again.  As  to  poor  Mrs.  Dawkes,  Kezi- 
ah, in  her  hard  way,  did  feel  some  pity 
for  her.  She  was  very  young  to  die  ; 
but  Keziah  comforted  herself  with  this 
consolation — that  she  could  not  help  it. 
If  Mrs.  Dawkes  was  sick  with  a  sickness 
that  would,  apparently,  only  end  in 
death,  and  not  long  first,  either,  it  was 
certainly  no  fault  of  hers  ;  she  had  not 
helped  her  to  the  sickness  or  the  sorrow 
— was  not  responsible  for  it'  in  any  way 
whatsoever. 

Upon  coming  in  from  the  walk,  and 
parting  with  Thomas  Kage  just  within 
the  hall,  Caroline  said  she  felt  weary 
and  would  go  to  her  room  to  rest,  desir- 
ing not  to  be  disturbed.  Keziah  acqui- 
esced, speaking  some  kind  words,  and 
accompanied  her  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
quite  affectionately.  It  was  in  return- 
ing, that  the  rays  from  the  western  sun, 
streaming  into  the  hall  through  the 
open  entrance-door,  drew  Keziah  out  by 
their  brightness.  The  shawl  borrowed 
from  Mrs.  Kage's  maid  was  wrapped 
round  her  still  ;  Keziah  felt  quite  com- 
fortable, and  stayed  there  thinking,  as 
if  she  meant  to  make  it  her  abode  for 
the  rest  of  the  day. 

"  Quite  the  best  thing  she  could  do," 


murmured  Keziah,  and  the  words  ap- 
plied to  the  retreat  of  her  sister-in-law 
to  rest  in  the  south  wing.  "  She  is  qui- 
et there,  and  Fry's  at  hand  to  wait  on 
her,  and  it  saves  me  an  immense  deal 
of  trouble.  It  is  a  strain  to  have  to 
make  conversation  without  ceasing  for  a 
person  with  whom  you  have  no  sympa- 
thies in  common ;  or,  rather,  who  has 
none  with  you.  As  to  that  horrible  old 
Mrs.  Kage,  I  could  have  found  in  my 
heart  to  put  a  pitch -plaster  on  her 
mouth.  She  is  more  knave  than  fool. 
Talk  of  her  being  imbecile,  indeed. 
Just  because  Thomas  Kage  was  present, 
she  said  that !  Caroline  did  not  take  it 
up ;  that  was  a  blessing ;  neither  did 
he :  but  there  was  a  look  in  his  eyes  I 
did  not  like  to  see.  Thanks  be  to  all 
the  saints  that  the  man  has  gone  again  ! 
If  he  were  to  stay  in  the  neighborhood, 
mischief  might  come  of  it.  Only  to 
think  of  her  walking  there  and  back  be- 
cause he  was  going  to  walk  !  He  has 
great  influence  over  her.  And  he  is  one 
of  those  inconveniently  straightforward 
men  that  might  prove  troublesome  if 
his  suspicions  were  aroused  as  to  —  to 
anything.  I  should  like  to  know  what 
brings  him  down  here.  Not  Caroline's 
interests,  though — as  I  feared  when  old 
Owen  first  said  he  was  come.  I'm  sure 
my  heart  leaped  into  my  mouth  ;  I  felt 
that  I  ought  to  telegraph  to  Barby. 
But  it's  all  right.  I'll  just  mention 
that  he  has  been  here  when  I  write  to 
Barby  presently ;  and  if  Barby  chooses 
— my  goodness  !  why,  there  he  is  ! " 

The  last  words  applied  to  Barby  him- 
self. An  open  fly  had  driven  in  and 
was  approaching  the  hall-steps;  in  its 
inmate — a  gentleman  who  leaned  back 
with  rather  a  pompous  air — Keziah 
surely  thought  she  recognised  Barby. 
Did  the  sun's  rays  deceive  her  ? — the}' 
were  shining  right  into  her  eyes,  daz- 
zling her  sight  —  and  she  thought  it 
must  be  so.  The  traveller  took  off  his 
hat,  and  gave  it  a  gentle  wave  by  way 
of  greeting.  It  was  Barby.  Keziah 
sounded  a  peal  on  the  visitors'  bell  to 
bring  out  the  servants. 

Major  Dawkes  came  up  the  steps,  and 
Keziah  received  him  with  a  warm  em- 
brace— which  he  did  not  seem  to  ap- 
preciate sufficiently.  She  led  the  way 
to  the  sitting-room,  and  stirred  the  tire 
into  a  blaze. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


247 


"  All  well  ?  "  asked  the  Major,  taking 
oft'  his  overcoat,  and  standing  on  the 
hearth-rug  to  warm  his  hands. 

"  Quite  well,"  answered  Keziah. 
"  Except  that  I  fear  Caroline  grows 
weaker." 

"  Does  she  ?  —  dear  me  !  Where  is 
she  ?  "  added  the  Major,  looking  round 
the  room. 

"  She  has  just  gone  to  lie  down,  Bar- 
naby.     What  will  you  take  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  present.  Is  Kage  down 
here  ?  " 

And,  with  the  last  question,  Ke- 
zialrs  understanding  was  opened  :  Major 
Dawkes  must  have  heard  of  Mr.  Kage's 
visit,  and  had  c  mie  to  checkmate  it. 

Even  so.  Keziah  was  au  accurate 
guesser.  On  the  previous  afternoon, 
chance,  or  luck,  or  whatever  the  genius 
might  be  that  presided  over  the  interests 
of  Barnaby  Dawkes,  had  taken  that 
gentleman's  lawyer  to  Mr.  Kage's  cham- 
bers. So  vast  a  property  as  the  Major 
had  dropped  into — or,  to  be  correct,  his 
wife,  but  it  came  to  the  same  practically 
— had  its  complications.  More  than 
once,  Mr.  Kage,  as  the  previous  acting- 
trustee,  had  to  be  referred  to  for  details 
connected  with  the  past  management. 
Some  need  of  this  kind  took  lawyer 
Jessup  to  the  barrister's  chambers,  and 
there  he  heard  that  Mr.  Kage  Jiad  just 
goue  down  to  Chilling.  Later  in  the 
day,  another  chance,  or  accident,  caused 
Major  Dawkes  to  call  at  his  lawyer's — 
the  objects  of  the  two  visits  being  quite 
unconnected  with  each  other.  While 
there,  the  lawyer  incidentally  mentioned 
the  item  of  news  he  had  heard — that 
Mr.  Kage  had  gone  to  Chilling. 

"  To  see  your  wife,  Major,  no  doubt," 
innocently  quoth  old  Jessup,  who  had 
not  the  faintest  notion  of  anything  that 
might  be  involved,  or  of  the  sudden  turn 
the  suggestion  gave  the  Major. 

"  Ah,  yes,  possibly  so  ;  they  are  cous- 
ins," drawled  the  Major,  stroking  his 
black  moustache,  and  relieving  his  feel- 
ings by  a  little  mental  swearing. 

The  Major  would  have  liked  to  drive 
direct  to  the  Paddington  Station  and 
take  the  first  train  for  Chilling.  That 
might  not  be,  however ;  but  he  made 
arrangements  to  leave  in  the  morning. 
Down  he  came,  as  fast  as  the  engine 
would  bring  him  ;  his  mind  rather  in- 
conveniently tormenting  itself  as  to  the 


motive  that  had  taken  Thomas  Kage 
thither.  That  it  was  to  see  Mrs. 
Dawkes  he  assumed  to  be  a  matter  of 
course  ;  but — with  what  object  ?  Con- 
science makes  cowards  of  the  best  of  us 
— it  made  a  coward  of  the  Major  oftener 
than  his  friends  might  think — and  is  apt 
to  suggest  all  kinds  of  improbabilities. 
The  least  he  feared  was,  that  Mr.  Kage 
had  gone  down  to  inform  his  wife  she 
ought  to  make  a  will.  There  might  be 
one  or  two  things  in  life  Major  Dawkes 
dreaded  more  than  that,  but  he  dreaded 
it  quite  enough. 

She  might  be  leaving  half  the  fortune 
awray  from  him,  once  she  got  the  idea 
of  a  will  put  in  her  head,  as  the  Major's 
common  sense  told.  He  did  not  intend 
she  should.  Having  come  to  revel  in 
the  sweets  of  wealth,  it  would  not  be 
pleasant  to  relinquish  any  of  it.  Major 
Dawkes  w7as  living  rather  a  fast  life, 
spending  the  late  Mr.  Canterbury's 
money  wholesale.  The  principal  he 
could  not  touch  ;  but  he  made  free  as 
air  with  the  large  amount  returned  as 
interest. 

Keziah,  feeling  at  rest  as  to  the  rea- 
son of  his  sudden  appearance,  slipped 
off  the  shawl,  and  took  up  her  knitting. 

"  Is  Kage  down  here  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  has  he  come  for  ?  " 

"  I  was  asking  the  veiy  same  question 
of  myself  just  as  you  arrived,  Barnaby. 
1  don't  know." 

"  Where  the  deuce  is  he  staying  ?  In 
the  house  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  quietly  answered 
Keziah,  as  she  told,  in  a  few  words,  all 
she  knew  of  the  matter — the  hearing  of 
his  arrival  from  Owen  the  doctor,  and 
Mr.  Kage's  subsequent  visit.  Major 
Dawkes  listened  with  a  gloomy  brow. 

"  0,  yes,  I  daresay  !  It's  all  very  well 
for  you  to  tell  me  he  is  going  back  to- 
morrow morning,  and  will  not  call  here 
again.    I  don't  believe  it." 

"  You  majr  depend  upon  one  thing,  I 
think,  Barnaby  :  that,  whatever  business 
may  have  brought  him  here,  it  is  not 
connected  with  Caroline." 

"  You  are  a  fool,  Keziah,"  politely  re- 
joined the  Major. 

"  Not  where  you  are  concerned,"  was 
Keziah's  composed  answer.  "  You  had 
never  cause  to  charge  me  with  being 
that  in  the  years  gone  by. 


248 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


"  Do  you  suppose  she  wrote  for  him  ?  " 

"  Who  ? — Caroline  ?  I  am  sure  she 
did  not.  She  has  never  put  pen  to  pa- 
per since  we  came  to  the  Rock.  Had 
you  seen  the  quiet  apathetic  manner  with 
which  she  received  him  when  he  came  in 
this  morning,  you  would  put  aside  all  idea 
of  lier  having  sent  for  him — or  of  her 
wishing  to  see  him  either." 

"  The  man  must  want  something,  Ke- 
ziah.  He'd  not  come  all  this  cursed  long 
railway  journey  for  pleasure.  What  in- 
terests has  he  in  Chilling  but  Caroline  ? 
Don't  tell  me." 

Keziah,  knitting  always,  silently  re- 
volved the  points  in  her  mind.  There 
was  reason  in  what  Barby  said.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  could  not  disbelieve  her 
sight  and  ears,  and  senses  generally. 
Thomas  Kage  had  paid  but  a  formal  call, 
as  any  other  stranger  might  do,  and  was 
certainly  not  coming  again. 

"  That  man  has  been  a  sort  of  enemy 
to  me  through  life  ;  cropping  up  at  all 
kinds  of  unseasonable  times,"  observed 
the  Major,  giving  the  rich  and  thick 
hearth-rug  a  passionate  kick. 

"  But  you  hr«.ve  always  managed  to 
hold  your  own  against  him  in  the  long- 
run,"  quietly  returned  Keziah. 

"  Yes,  and  will  still.  I'm  sure  I  wish 
the  fellow  was  buried  ;  there's  no  man 
living  I — " 

Major  Dawkes  came  to  a  sudden  pause. 
"  I  dread  so  much  as  him,"  had  been  the 
words  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  But'it 
was  not  always  convenient  to  speak  out 
his  full  thoughts,  even  to  Keziah. 

"Look  here,  Keziah.  The  man  must 
have  come  down  on  some  matter  connect- 
ed with  Caroline  ;  and  I  don't  care  what 
you  say  to  the  contrary.  He  may  have 
got  it  in  his  head — and  my  firm  belief  is 
that  he  has — that  she  ought  to  make  a 
will.  Considering  the  faculty  he  has  for 
mixing  himself  up  with  other  people's 
affairs,  it's  onl}T  what  he  might  be  ex- 
pected to  do.  He  has  come  here  to  see 
whether  she  has  done  it,  and  to  suggest 
it  to  her." 

"  I  tell  you  no,  Barnaby,"  reiterated 
Keziah.  "  He  did  not  hint  at  such  a 
thing ;  he  nevor  said  a  word  to  her  that 
anybody  could  disapprove  of.  The  con- 
versation was  upon  the  most  indifferent 
topics  you  can  imagine.  I  was  with 
them  all  the  time." 

Major  Dawkes  twirled  the  corners  of 


his    moustache    savagely.      Things   did 
not  look  absolutely  clear. 

"Does  she  ever  express  a  wish  to 
make  one  ?  " 

"  Never.  I  do  not  suppose  the  thought 
or  wish  has  occurred  to  her.  I  feel 
quite  sure  she  looks  upon  you  as  her 
legal  successor  here." 

"  And  of  course  I  am  such,"  interject- 
ed the  Major. 

"  One  day  last  week  we  were  on  the 
lawn  ;  Caroline  sat  down  to  rest ;  things 
were  looking  beautiful.  A  remark  slip- 
ped from  me  quite  involuntarily,  that  I 
hoped  you,  when  you  were  sole  master 
here,  would  keep  the  gardeners  to  their 
duty,  as  they  were  kept  now.  '  Yes, 
indeed  ;  if  I  thought  otherwise,  I  should 
be  sorry  to  leave  the  place,'  she  an- 
swered. Barnaby,  rely  upon  it,  she  has 
no  thought  of  leaving  anything  away 
from  you." 

The  Major  felt  a  little  reassured. 

"  A  will  is  an  inconvenient  article, 
you  see,  Keziah.  Once  a  man  or 
woman  sets  himself  to  make  one,  he 
may  be  led  away  to  leave  no  end  of 
•property  to  individuals  indiscrimi- 
nately." 

"  Ease  your  mind,"  was  Keziah's  as- 
suring answer.  "Caroline  has  no 
thought  of  doing  it ;  and  if  she  had,  I 
am  at  hand,  remember.  She  is  in  a 
state  of  complete  apathy  ;  I  don't  be- 
lieve she  cares  one  iota  whose  the  prop- 
erty is,  or  who  will  inherit  it  after  her." 

The  Major  let  fall  his  coat-tails,  which 
he  had  picked  up  under  his  arm,  and 
moved  off  the  hearth-rug. 

"  I'll  go  up  and  see  her.  South  wing, 
isn't  it  ?  A  curious  freak,  to  take  up 
her  abode  in  that  gloom}'  place." 

"  She  is  quiet  there,  j'ou  see ;  and  to 
be  quiet  is  all  she  cares  for  now.  As  to 
the  wing  being  gloomy,  I  think  the 
rooms  are  very  nice  and  comfortable." 

"  And  look  out  on  a  howling  wilder- 
ness," observed  the  Major.  "  If  I 
recollect  rightby,  that  is  the  chief  pros- 
pect the  windows  possess." 

"  There  are  some  charming  hills  and 
other  scenery  in  the  distance." 

"  Every  one  to  his  taste  :  distant  hills 
possess  no  attractions  for  me." 

Without  giving  himself  the  trouble  to 
knock,  the  Major  opened  the  green-baize 
door,  which  was  rarely  bolted  in  the  day- 
time, and  entered.     Fry  came  flying  out 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


249 


of  the  room  close  by,  and  stood  in  utter 
astonishment  at  sight  of  the  visitor. 

"  Which  room  is  }-our  mistress  in  ?  " 

"  She — she's  in  her  sitting-room,  sir," 
was  Fry's  answer,  when  her  surprise 
allowed  her  to  speak.  "  I'll  tell  her  you 
are  here." 

Caroline  was  lying  on  the  sofa.  She 
felt  equally  surprised  with  Fry  at  sight 
of  the  Major,  but  did  not  evince  it. 
Rising  from  the  sofa,  she  coldly  shook 
hands  with  him,  and  then  sat  down  on 
it.  The  Major  had  seemed  to  under- 
stand for  some  time  now  that  he  must 
not  attempt  any  warmer  greeting. 

"  How  are  you,  my  dear  ?  "  inquired 
the  Major,  taking  up  the  position  he  had 
taken  below — his  back  to  the  fire. 

"  Middling.     I  am  not  very  strong." 

"  Dear  me  !  You  look  pretty  well, 
too." 

At  that  moment  perhaps  she  did.  A 
red  flush,  born  of  aversion  and  other 
complicated  feelings,  had  risen  to  her 
face  lately  whenever  he  appeared  in  her 
presence,  and  was  illumining  it  now. 

"  I've  been  wanting  to  run  down  for 
this  week  past ;  couldn't  get  the  time 
until  yesterday,"  cried  the  truthful 
Major.  "  Lots  of  duties  on  hand  just 
now  in  town." 

"A  pity  3tou  left  them." 

"  Came  down  to  see  you  and  Kez.,  and 
how  things  were  getting  on  here.  Wish 
you  could  pick  up  a  bit,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Dawkes,  sitting  in  what  seemed 
to  be  the  completest  state  of  apathy, 
made  no  response.     He  began  again  : 

"  Hear  you've  had  a  visitor  to-day — 
Kage.  Awfully  astonished  to  find  he 
was  down  here.  Passed  him  in  the 
street  in  town  but  a  few  days  ago." 

Again  no  answer. 

"  What  has  Kage  come  to  Chilling 
for?" 

"  I  did  not  ask  him." 

"  Lively  and  agreeable  this,"  thought 
the  Major.     And  no  doubt  it  was. 

"  I  hope  Kage  came  for  the  purpose 
of  seeing  you,  Caroline,  my  dear.  It's 
good  to  be  remembered  by  one's  old  ac- 
quaintances." 

"  He  did  not  come  to  see  me.  If  he 
had  come  for  that,  he  would  have  said 
so." 

"  Does  he  make  a  long  stay  ?  " 

"  He  goes  again  to-night,  or  to-mor- 
row ;  I  forget  which  he  said.  Keziah 
would  know." 


Beyond  these  short  answers,  nothing 
could  the  Major  get.  He  strove  to  make 
himself  agreeable  ;  told  an  amusing  an- 
ecdote or  two  ;  but  they  sufficed  not  to 
arouse  Caroline  from  her  cold  resentful 
state.  The  Major  swallowed  down  about 
fifteen  yawns. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  he  briskly,  "  there 
used  to  be  some  fencing-sticks  of  mine  at 
the  Rock.  Do  you  happen  to  know  where 
they  were  put  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  them." 

"  I  had  them  here  when  we  were  first 
married,  Caroline.  Briscoe  came  down 
to  stay,  you  may  remember ;  and  we  used 
to  come  up  to  the  big  room  of  this  wing 
— the  one  you  make  your  bed-chamber 
now,  I  suppose — and  have  a  fencing- 
bout." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  them," 
repeated  she,  in  the  same  inert  tone. 

The  Major  walked  to  the  door  and 
called  Fry,  telling  her  what  he  was  in- 
quiring after. 

"There  was  a  lumber-closet  somewhere 
here ;  we  used  to  throw  them  into  it  when 
done  with.     Perhaps  they  are  m  it  yet." 

Fry  felt  discomposed.  It  was  from 
this  self-same  lumber-closet  that  the  way 
led  down  to  the  postern  entrance.  The 
Major  suddenly  remembering  the  posi- 
tion of  the  closet,  threw  open  the  door. 

A  way  had  been  cleared  inside  it  for 
Mr.  Kage  to  come  through  on  the  pre- 
vious night,  consigning  all  the  "  lumber" 
on  either  side.  It  lay  indiscriminately, 
one  thing  upon  another.  As  the  Major 
stood  contemplating  the  interior  from  the 
door — as  well  as  the  semi-light  enabled 
him — he  faced  exactly  the  paneled  en- 
trance, so  bare  now.  Well  indeed  was  it, 
for  the  sake  of  justice,  that  the  panel  gave 
to  the  eye  no  indication  of  its  secret 
opening. 

Fry,  her  eyes  dilating  a  little,  made  a 
furious  onslaught  on  the  lumber,  and 
blocked  up  the  cleared  passage.  The 
Major,  standing  just  inside,  suddenhy  saw 
his  wife  at  the  entrance-door,  her  face 
pale  and  scared. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked.  «  What 
is  the  matter  ?  " 

'■  We  are  looking  for  the  fencing-sticks. 
Don't  you  come,  my  dear." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Fry,  stopping  in 
her  work.  "  If  the  Major  would  leave  me, 
and  you'd  leave  me,  ma'am,  perhaps  I 
might  find  'em.  I  think  I've  &een  'em 
here." 


250 


(GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


"  Whereabouts  ?  "  cried  the  Major  ea- 
gerly. 

"  I  never  can  do  anything  when  I'm 
looked  at  and  bothered ;  my  mistress 
knows  I  can't,"  was  Fry's  answer. 
"  Both  of  you  just  leave  me  to  myself,  sir, 
and  I'll  find  the  sticks  if  they  are  to  be 
found." 

But  as  she  spoke  something  caught 
the  Major's  quick  eye.  He  drew  it  up  ; 
it  proved  to  be  one  of  the  fencing-sticks. 
This  gave  an  indication  to  the  locality 
of  the  other,  and  it  came  to  light  soon. 
When  Caroline  went  back  after  the  in- 
vestigation, her  chest  was  heaving  with 
ominous  quickness. 

"  The  commotion  has  disturbed  you,  I 
fear,"  observed  the  Major.  "  I'm  really 
very  sorry.     These  fencing-sticks — " 

He  was  interrupted.  Neel  had  come 
up  to  say  that  a  visitor  was  below — Mrs. 
Dunn. 

"  Plague  take  it  !  who  wants  to  see 
her?"  cried  the  Major.  "Mrs.  Dunn! 
I  thought  she  was  abroad." 

"  The  family  thought  so  too,  sir,"  ob- 
served Neel,  who  considered  the  old  fam- 
ily far  more  than  he  did  the  new  one. 
"  Mrs.  Dunn  came  to  Chilling  yesterday 
and  surprised  them." 

"  She's  a  horrid  woman,"  cried  the 
Major. — "  Will  you  come  down,  my 
dear  ?  " 

"No,"  was  Mrs.  Dawkes's  answer. — 
"Just  say,  if  you  please,  Neel,  that  lam 
very  tired  and  poorly.  I  do  not  feel  equal 
to  it." 

"  I  can  say  that.  I  suppose  I  must 
go,"  grumbled  the  Major,  stalking  off 
with  his  fencing  sticks. 

Mrs.  Dunn,  in  very  fashionable  foreign 
attire — quite  a  contrast  to  anything  ever 
assumed  by  Keziah  Dawkes — sat  on  a 
sofa  in  the  grand  drawing-room,  to  which 
Neel  had  shown  her.  There  was  no  fire; 
at  which  she  gave  her  head  a  disdainful 
toss,  and  remarked  to  Neel  that  the  ways 
of  the  house  appeared  to  be  altered. 

"  And  so  they  are,  ma'am,"  answered 
Neel  confidentially.  "  Miss  Dawkes  is 
manager." 

''  O  !  Mrs.  Dawkes  gives  it  up  to  her 
then  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Dawkes  has  never  gave  a  single 
blessed  order  since  she  came  into  the 
house  this  last  time,"  was  Neel's  reply. 
"  She  don't  care  who  gives  'em,  and  who 
don't;  she's  too  ill  for  if,  ma'am." 

Major   and   Miss   Dawkes,  the  latter 


with  her  knitting,  presented  themselves 
together;  and  Mrs.  Dunn  condescended 
to  give  each  in  succession  the  tip  of  her 
forefinger.  Neel  could  not  despise  these 
new  people  half  as  much  as  she  did. 
The  feeling  peeped  out  in  her  manner, 
too,  in  spite  of  her  surface  civility. 

"  Too  ill  to  come  down  to  me,  is  she  !  " 
cried  Mrs.  Dunn,  receiving  the  apologies 
for  the  non-appearance  of  the  Bock's 
mistress.  "  I  hear  she  is  ill,  and  I  am 
sorry  for  her." 

"  Too  tired  to  come,  I  said,"  corrected 
the  Major.  "  On  the  whole,  she  is 
rather  poorly." 

"  If  what  I  am  told  be  true,  she  is  a 
great  deal  more  than  poorly,  Major 
Dawkes,"  retorted  Mrs.  Dunn.  "  Owen, 
with  whom  I  was  talking  this  morning, 
fears  you'll  not  have  her  very  long 
amidst  you." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  cried  the  Major,  with  a 
start  of  dismay.  "  But  Owen  always 
did  look  on  the  black  side  of  things,  I 
remember.  1  think  her  somewhat  bet- 
ter than  she  was  when  I  was  here  last." 

"You  know,  I  suppose,  how  it  is  — 
that  she  is  alarmingly  ill  ? "  resumed 
Mrs.  Dunn,  turning  the  fire  of  her 
tongue  on  Keziah. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  she  is  alarming- 
ly ill,"  was  Keziah's  composed  answer, 
given  very  slowly,  for  she  was  picking 
up  some  stitches  in  the  everlasting  knit- 
ting. "  Mrs.  Dawkes  is  certainly  weak 
and  languid ;  but  I  hope  she  will  soon 
regain  strength." 

"  It  was  the  state  she  is  represented  to 
me  as  being  in  that  brought  me  here  this 
afternoon.  I  should  have  liked  to  see 
her,  poor  thing  ;  I  knew  her  when  she 
was  a  child.  It  is  her  boy's  death,  they 
say,  that  has  brought  on  her  illness." 

But  the  Major  denied  this  rather  ve- 
hemently. His  wife  had  been  at  death's 
door  before  the  boy  died,  he  observed  ; 
her  lungs  and  chest  were  weak." 

Mrs.  Dunn  left  her  sofa  without  cere- 
mony, and  took  a  seat  that  faced  the 
Major  and  Miss  Dawkes.  It  was  this 
same  magnificent  room  that  had  witness- 
ed the  contention  about  the  will  between 
Olive  Canterbury  and  her  father.  Not 
an  executed  will  at  that  time,  only  a 
purposed  one.  Caroline  had  no  doubt 
remembered  the  scene  often  enough 
since,  when  sitting  there. 

"What  did  that  boy  die  of,  Major 
Dawkes  ?  » 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


251 


The  question  was  a  pointed  one ;  es- 
pecially so  as  Mrs.  Dunn  put  it.  Bend- 
ing forward,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  Major, 
save  when  they  wandered  to  Keziah, 
her  voice  low  and  full  of  meaning, — it 
was  thus  she  asked  it. 

"  It's  of  no  use  to  recall  it  now,"  re- 
plied the  Major,  looking  down  on  the 
rich  carpet — out  at  the  window — to  the 
walls  of  the  room.  Anywhere  except 
at  her. 

"But  it  is  of  use.  I  ask  to  know. 
You  were  in  the  midst  of  it ;  T  was 
abroad,  shut  out  from  all  news,  except 
hearsay.  As  I  remarked  to  Mr.  Kage 
at  our  dinner-table  last  night,  when  I 
besought  him  to  tell  me." 

"  And  pray  what  might  he  have  told 
you,  Mrs.  Dunn  ?  "  inquired  the  Major, 
not  with  so  much  polite  indifference  as 
Keziah  would  have  liked  to  hear. 

"  He  said  he  could  tell  me  nothing, 
except  what  I  knew  before  —  that  the 
doctors  said  the  boy  died  from  poison." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  replied  the  Major,  "  they 
did  say  it.  But  doctors  are  mistaken 
sometimes,  and  I  think  they  were." 

"  That's  rubbish,  Major  Dawkes," 
was  Mrs.  Dunn's  complimentary  answer. 
"  You  don't  really  think  so.  The  doc- 
tors could  not  have  dreamt  they  found 
opium  within  the  boy,  if  none  was 
there.  Do  you  mean  to  charge  them 
with  telling  a  falsehood  ?  " 

Keziah's  knitting  was  trembling  a 
little.  But  she  kept  her  attention  on  it. 
As  to  her  lips,  they  seemed  to  be  com- 
pressed into  nothing.  Happening  to 
glance  at  her,  Mrs.  Dunn  thought  she 
was  unusually  gray. 

"  I  don't  charge  them  with  anything, 
Mrs.  Dunn,"  resumed  the  Major.  "  I 
only  think  they  were  mistaken." 

"And  I  say  I  don't  believe  you  think 
it.  The  opium  was  in  the  child,  safe 
enough :  it  was  proved  so.  What  I 
want  to  ask  you  is — who  gave  it  him  ?  " 

Keziah  looked  off  her  knitting  and 
took  up  the  answer.  She  could  bear  it 
no  longer.  Her  lips  were  turning 
strangely  white. 

"  That  never  was  ascertained.  It  was 
proved  beyond  all  dispute  or  doubt  that 
the  child  had  not  taken  anything  of  the 
kind  ;  had  not  been  in  the  way  of  tak- 
ing it.  It  was  an  absolute  impossibility 
that  any  such  thing  had  come  near 
him." 

"  An  absolute  fiddlestick,"  said  Mrs. 


Dunn.  "  Of  course  it  is  to  your  sister's 
interest  and  yours,  Major  Dawkes,  to 
uphold  this  view  and  stifle  farther  in- 
quiry; but  you  cannot  expect  common- 
sense  people  to  believe  it." 

"  To  my — my  interest  !  "  retorted  the 
Major,  with  a  kind  of  stammer. 

"  To  be  sure  it  is.  Haven't  you  come 
in  for  the  child's  money  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  have  not,"  said  the  Ma- 
jor boldly.  "  The  money  reverted  to 
the  boy's  mother,  not  to  me." 

"  It  reverted  to  her  in  name.  "Not,  I 
expect,  in  fact.  Who  draws  the  cheques, 
pray  ?  Major  Dawkes,  you  cannot  play 
at  sophistry  with  me." 

Major  Dawkes  rose  and  walked  to  the 
window  with  an  air  of  easy  carelessness, 
gazing  out  upon  the  setting  sun.  Ke- 
ziah looked  as  if  she  were  going  to  be 
sick. 

"  Had  I  been  in  England,  I  should 
have  caused  the  investigation  to  be  re- 
opened," said  Mrs.  Dunn.  "  Mr.  Kage, 
as  the  boy's  trustee,  was  culpabty  care- 
less not  to  enforce  a  more  searching  one. 
One  would  think  it  would  be  as  satisfac- 
tory to  you  to  come  to  the  bottom  of  it, 
as  to  us,"  she  added,  throwing  a  full 
look  after  him. 

"  Immensely  so,"  acquiesced  the  Ma- 
jor. "  I  begged  the  medical  men  not  to 
leave  a  stone  unturned.  The  authority 
lay  in  my  hands,  not  in  Mr.  Kage's  ;  but 
he  could  have  done  no  more  than  I  did." 

"  Had  I  been  he,  I  should  have  tried 
at  it.  There's  a  secret  in  the  matter 
somewhere,  Major  Dawkes,  and  it  ought 
to  have  been  got  at.  It  ought  to  be 
still.  For  two  pins,  I'd  re-open  the  in- 
quiry myself." 

"  It  would  do  no  earthly  good,  and  be 
a  frightful  amount  of  trouble,"  spoke 
the  Major,  somewhat  hurriedly. 

"  It  would  be  a  trouble,  of  course ; 
but  I  think  'I  should  rather  like  it.  He 
stood  to  me  in  the  light  of  half-brother, 
absurd  though  it  sounds,  to  say  it  of  a 
little  fellow  of  that  age." 

"  My  firm  persuasion  is,  that  the  boy 
died  from  nothing  but  his  illness,"  said 
the  Major  in  a  candid  note,  as  he  return- 
ed to  his  seat.  "  I  went  over  the  mat- 
ter full}'-,  point  after  point,  at  the  time, 
and  since,  and  I  am  quite  unable,  as  my 
sister  here  knows,  to  arrive  at  any  other 
conclusion.  It  was  very  much  to  be  re- 
gretted that  I  was  away  from  home." 

"  Well,  it  strikes  me  as  being  one  of 


252 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


the  most  unaccountably  mysterious  cases 
I  ever  came  across  ;  nothing  satisfactory 
about  it  in  any  way.  But  I  can't  stay 
to  talk  farther  of  it  now,"  concluded 
Mrs.  Dunn,  rising  to  depart.  The  rec- 
tory people  and  Thomas  Kage  are  com- 
ing in  to  dine  with  us.  and  I  like  to  take 
my  time  in  dressing." 

"Is  Mr.  Kage's  visit  at  Chilling  to 
you  ?  "  asked  the  Major  on  the  impulse 
of  the  moment. 

"  I  suppose  it  may  be  considered  to 
my  sister  Millicent ;  they  are  engaged 
to  be  married,"  she  replied. 

And  as  Barnaby  Dawkes  heard  the 
avowal,  he  felt  as  if  a  whole  weight  of 
lead  had  been  lifted  from  his  heart. 

In  an  airy,  graceful,  sprightly  man- 
ner, as  though  no  care  or  dread  had  ever 
oppressed  his  soul,  he  attended  Mrs. 
Dunn  to  the  very  extreme  gates  of  the 
Rock,  chatting  amicably,  and  sending 
his  respects  to  the  Miss  Canterbury's. 
Keziah  had  disappeared  when  he  re- 
turned, and  he  did  not  see  her  again  un- 
til dinner.  They  took  the  meal  togeth- 
er ;  Caroline  remaining  in  her  own 
room. 

"  That's  what  has  brought  Kage 
down,"  he  observed  to  Keziah,  alluding 
to  the  information  volunteered  by  Mrs. 
Dunn  of  the  engagement  to  Millicent. 

"  Yes,  Barby  dear.  I  knew  it  had 
nothing  to  do  with  us." 

"  Wish  him  joy  of  her  !  I'd  not  like 
one  of  the  Canterburys  for  my  wife. 
And,  Keziah — keep  that  woman,  civilly, 
at  arm's  distance  ;  the  Dunn.  Don't  let 
her  get  near  Caroline,  if  }rou  can  help  it. 
Her  tongue's  made  of  fire." 

"  All  right,"  nodded  Keziah. 

With  the  morning  Mr.  Kage  started 
for  London.  The  Major  stayed  to  see 
the  coast  clear  of  him,  and  then  depart- 
ed himself,  his  fears  dispersed.  Disa- 
greeable doubts  were  over ;  and  Barna- 
by Dawkes  went  gleefully  back  into  the 
sunshine  of  London  streets,  that  to  him 
might  be  said  to  be  paved  with  gold. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

THE    LAWYER'S    SECRET    VISIT. 

Major  Dawkes  departed,  and  the 
Rock  was  its  own  quiet  self  again.  A 
strangely  monotonous  abode  now,  its  at- 


tractions, its  fine  rooms,  its  natural  beau- 
ties, going  for  naught  to  those  two  silent 
women  living  in  it — the  one  so  hard  and 
gray,  something  like  a  block  of  stone  ; 
the  other  passing  swiftly  and  surely  on 
to  the  tomb  that  must  soon  encase  her. 
That  each  had  inward  cares,  was  indis- 
putable. Keziah  was  never  quite  free 
from  a  living  dread  —  a  dread  of  some 
vague  danger  on  Barby's  account — that 
would  not  quite  keep  itself  down ;  it 
tinted  the  charming  landscape,  it  gave  ak 
bitter  taste  to  the  dishes  she  ate  of,  it 
poisoned  her  pleasure  sleeping  and  wak- 
ing. It  seemed  to  her  that  this  danger 
would  pass  with  Mrs.  Dawkes's  life ; 
once  she  was  beyond  speaking,  the  fear 
would  be  nearty  completely  over.  Bar- 
by  would  be  in  full  possession  of  the 
Rock  and  its  large  revenues  then,  and 
who  might  dare  to  breathe  a  slander  on 
him  ?  Never  a  word  had  passed  be- 
tween her  and  her  brother  on  that  incon- 
venient subject,  the  death  of  the  child  ; 
but  Keziah,  a  shrewd  sensible  woman, 
had  discerned  odds  and  ends  of  things 
for  herself.  WThat  Caroline  knew  or 
knew  not,  she  did  not  dare  to  glance  at ; 
something,  she  feared  ;  else  why  the  life 
of  estrangement  she  had  lived  ever  since 
from  her  husband,  and  which  he  acqui- 
esced in  as  a  matter  of  course,  without 
a  dissenting  word  ?  Strangers  could 
not  be  more  entirely  separate  than  they 
were ;  and  Mrs.  Dawkes  took  no  trouble 
to  hide  the  fact.  There  were  moments 
when  Keziah  awoke  out  of  her  sleep  in 
a  great  horror  —  a  sleep  in  which  she 
had  seen  Barnaby  in  the  hands  of  men 
who  are  the  administrators  of  England's 
criminal  laws  ;  and  Caroline  was  inva- 
riably the  Nemesis  that  brought  him  to 
his  punishment.  Keziah  knew  these 
were  but  miserable  dreams,  the  result  of 
the  waking  nightmare  that  was  ever  up- 
on her ;  but  nevertheless  her  limbs 
would  shake  in  the  bed  with  terror,  her 
hair  be  wet  with  a  cold  perspiration. 
There  could  be  no  true  safety  for  Barby, 
or  peace  for  her,  until  Mrs.  Dawkes 
should  have  been  removed  from  the 
world  ;  and  Keziah,  while  pitying  her, 
saw  every  fresh  sign  of  weakness  with  a 
feeling  that  was  certainly  not  sorrow. 
Barnaby's  sins  might  be  very  great ; 
but  he  was  dearer  to  Keziah's  heart  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  world.  Had  the 
whole    inhabitants   of    the    globe    been 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


253 


ranged  on  one  side,  and  Barnaby  on  the 
other,  she  would  have  sacrificed  them 
all  to  him,  had  there  been  need  of  it. 

Major  Davvkes  might  well  return  to 
town  in  full  reliance  on  his  sister.  No 
undesirable  visitors  would  be  admitted 
to  any  private  interview  at  the  Rock ; 
no  opportunity  afforded  for  so  much  as 
a  documentary  line  being  executed,  let 
alone  a  will.  Keziah  was  a  sure  and 
vigilant  keeper.  The  strain  on  herself, 
taking  one  hidden  thing  with  another, 
was  great  just  now ;  but  she  looked  for 
the  time  when  it  should  be  removed  for 
ever,  and  she  and  Barnaby  be  at  liberty 
to  breathe  again.  One  great  consolation 
attended  it  all :  Caroline's  state  of  inert 
apathy.  It  was  quite  apparent  that  she 
intended  no  active  ill  to  her  husband  ;  it 
was  equally  apparent  that  never  a  thought 
of  leaving  her  money  away  from  him 
had  place  within  her.  It  sometimes 
crossed  Keziah's  mind  to  question  wheth- 
er Mrs.  Dawkes  remembered  the  fact, 
that  the  disposal  of  her  property  lay  in 
her  own  power. 

What  with  Caroline's  almost  certain 
denial  to  visitors — between  her  own  dis- 
taste for  it  and  Keziah's  manoeuvring, 
that  was  sure  to  be  the  result  when  call- 
ers came — the  Rock  had  been  deserted 
by  such  before  the  time  of  Mr.  Kage's 
visit.  After  his  departure,  Mr.  Rufort 
took  to  come  with  rather  inconvenient 
persistency.  The  fact  was,  Thomas 
Kage  had  told  him  he  ought  to  see  Mrs. 
Dawkes  occasionally,  considering  the  un- 
certain state  of  health  she  was  in — or, 
rather,  its  too  certain  state ;  and  Mr. 
Rufort  acted  on  it.  He  got  at  length 
to  see  the  mistress  of  the  Rock,  going  in 
and  out  with  tolerable  regularity.  But, 
like  the  doctor,  he  never  got  to  see  her 
alone.  Just  as  Keziah  invariably  ac- 
companied Mr.  Owen  to  the  rooms  in  the 
south  wing,  so  did  she  accompany  Mr. 
Rufort.  Mr.  Rufort  hinted  that  he 
should  like  to  be,  in  his  capacity  as 
Christ's  minister,  alone  with  the  sick  la- 
dy. Keziah  practically  refused  to  take 
the  hint.  She  liked  Mr.  Rufort's  visits, 
she  said ;  they  did  her  good.  When 
Mr.  Rufort  said,  that  in  praying  with 
his  sick  parishioners  he  preferred  to  be 
alone  with  them,  Keziah  rejoined  that 
she  liked  prayers.  Mr.  Rufort  yielded  ; 
for  Caroline  besought  him  in  a  private 
whisper — with  anxious  eyes  of  entreaty, 


and  a  clasp  of  the  hand  to  pain — not  to 
insist  on  the  point ;  at  least,  at  present ; 
time  enough  for  it  when  she  should  be 
nearer  death.  Mr.  Rufort  felt  altogeth- 
er a  little  puzzled,  but  said  no  more ; 
and  Keziah  enjoyed  the  personal  benefit 
of  the  prayers. 

Had  Keziah  Dawkes  been  told  that 
her  sister-in-law  was,  in  one  sense,  acting 
a  part,  she  had  refused  credence  to  it. 
With  all  her  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
its  wiles  and  concealments,  its  tricks  and 
its  turns,  she  had  never  believed  that 
Caroline  was  deceiving  her;  or  that  the 
weak  woman  lying  in  the  south  wing,  to 
all  appearance  in  utter  inertness,  in  com- 
plete apathy,  could  be  plotting  and  plan- 
ning as  anxiously  as  the  best  of  them. 
But  it  was  so. 

Caroline  set  about  what  she  had  to  do 
with  more  cautious  dread  than  there  was 
a  necessity  for.  From  the  moment  she 
had  parted  with  Thomas  Kage,  the  night 
of  his  secret  visit  by  the  postern-door, 
her  mind  and  brain  had  been  incessantly 
on  the  rack,  thinking  how  she  could  get 
Mr.  Norris  the  solicitor  to  her.  The  un- 
expected visit  of  her  husband  startled  her 
so  effectually,  that  for  some  days  she  let 
the  matter  rest.  Over  and  over  again 
she  asked  herself  the  question :  Had  he 
suspected  what  she  was  about  to  do,  and 
come  down  in  consequence  ?  Fully  did 
Caroline  believe  that  nothing,  save  the 
watching  over  his  own  interests,  would 
bring  him  away  from  London.  The  ter- 
ror she  had  felt  when  he  went  to  the 
lumber-closet  in  search  of  the  fencing- 
sticks,  she  felt  still :  it  had  seemed  a  con- 
firmation of  her  fears.  The  Major's  de- 
parture, after  only  one  clear  day's  stay, 
somewhat  reassured  her ;  but  even  then, 
for  some  days,  she  did  not  dare  to  move 
in  it.  The  time  came,  however.  And 
while  Keziah  was  knitting  fresh  patterns 
into  her  woolen  work  below,  congratu- 
lating herself,  rather  than  the  contrary, 
that  her  sister-in-law  was  lying  more  of 
her  hours  away  than  usual  in  inert  list- 
lessness,  shut  up  alone  in  the  south  wing, 
with  Fry  within  hearing  of  the  silver 
bell,  Caroline  was  up  and  doing.  Not 
that  the  term  "up  and  doing"  could  be 
applied  to  poor  Caroline  in  any  but  the 
slightest  degree. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Norris, — I  have  an 
urgent   reason   for  wishing  to  see   you, 


254 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


and.  to  see  you  alone.  It  is  essential 
that  your  visit  to  me  should  be  kept  en- 
tirely private,  from  my  household  as 
well  as  from  people  in  general.  Please 
note  this.  Will  you  be  at  the  postern- 
gate  of  the  south  wing  to-morrow  even- 
ing at  seven  o'clock  ?  Fry  will  be  wait- 
ing for  you,  and  bring  you  up  to  me. 
She  will  take  this  note  to  you,  and  carry 
back  your  verbal  answer.  I  rely  upon 
'you,  as  my  first  husband's  legal  adviser, 
and  I  may  add  friend :  I  have  no  one 
else  to  rely  upon.  Be  very  cautious. 
"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  Caroline  Dawkes." 

Mrs.  Dawkes  sat  reading  this  note 
after  it  was  written.  It  was  the  third 
she  had  attempted.  Neither  of  the 
others  pleased  her,  and  they  were 
already  in  the  fire. 

"  I  think  it  will  do,"  she  murmured, 
as  she  folded  and  sealed  it. 

Frv  had  her  instructions.  It  was 
necessary  for  Caroline  to  place  some  con- 
fidence in  her;  but  she  did  not  tell  her 
what  she  wanted  with  Mr.  Norris.  Fry 
was  trustworthy  ;  and  thought  the  little 
private  programme  as  good  as  a  play. 

Caroline  went  down  to  dinner  that 
da37 ;  she  said  she  felt  better.  Keziah 
thought  she  looked  it  :  the  fact  was  that 
the  excitement  caused  by  the  conscious- 
ness of  what  she  was  doing  imparted 
some  life  and  coloring  to  the  faded  coun- 
tenance. Rather  to  Keziah's  surprise, 
Caroline  did-  not  go  up  after  dinner,  but 
settled  herself  in  an  arm-chair.-  It  was 
not  often  that  she  dined  below  now  ;  but 
if  so,  she  went  away  when  the  meal  was 
over.  Of  course,  Keziah  was  full  of 
congratulation  ;  she  talked  to  her  sister- 
in-law,  and  read  to  her  a  short  story 
from  a  magazine.  Just  as  it  had  con- 
cluded, Caroline  was  taken  with  a  shiv- 
ering fit,  and  Miss  Dawkes  rang  for  a 
warm  shawl.  Mr.  Owen  did  not  much 
like  these  attacks  of  shivering — they 
had  come  on  three  or  four  times  lately  ; 
he  thought,  though,  they  were  purely 
nervous. 

"  Where's  Fry  ?  "  demanded  Miss 
.Dawkes,  when  the  s*hawl  was  brought 
in  by  the  upper  housemaid. 

"Fry's  gone  out,  ma'am.  She  said 
she  wanted  to  buy  herself  some  aprons." 

'*  She  has  no  right  to  go  out  when  she 
knows  her  misti'ess  may  want  her  at  any 


moment,"     sharply     returned     Keziah. 
"  Did  she  ask  your  leave,  Caroline  ?  " 

"I  forget,"  answered  poor  Caroline. 
"  I  heard  her  say  she  wanted  some  new 
aprons." 

"  She  ought  to  have  gone  in  the  day- 
time," persisted  Keziah,  who  had  no  no- 
tion of  Fry's  doing  as  she  pleased  with- 
out permission.  "Suppose  you  had 
wanted  to  go  to  bed  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  her,  Keziah. 
I  keep  her  in  so  very  much  ;  except  to 
church,  she  never  goes  out ;  and  she  must 
buy  herself  necessary  things." 

Keziah  let  the  matter  drop.  Fry  was 
gone,  as  the  reader  knows  quite  well,  to 
Mr.  Norris.  It  was  only  in  the  evening 
she  could  see  him  ;  for  he  was  all  day 
long  at  his  office  at  Aberton.  Fry  had 
cleverly  made  the  aprons  the  ostensible 
excuse  to  the  household. 

The  reader  may  think  that  all  com- 
ment might  have  been  avoided  by  Fry's 
going  out  by  way  of  the  postern -door. 
But  the  truth  was,  poor  Caroline  had 
got  into  that  nervous  state,  that  she  was 
afraid  to  be  alone  in  the  south  wing  after 
dark.  What  with  the  surroundings  of 
little  Tom's  death  (so  dreadful  to  her  im- 
agination), and  the  reputation  of  the 
ghost  that  was  wont  to  hover  around  the 
Lady's  Well  outside  the  windows,  Car- 
oline preferred  company  to  solitude. 

It  was  a  bright  starlight  night  when 
Fry  went  forth.  Mr.  Norris's  residence 
was  situated  a  little  beyond  the  rectory, 
as  the  reader  may  remember  ;  for  he  once 
went  to  it  with  Miss  Canterbury.  She 
knocked  at  the  door  and  asked  for  the 
lawyer. 

"  Not  at  home." 

"  Not  at  home  ?  "  retorted  Fry,  as  if 
the  man,  an  old  acquaintance  of  hers, 
were  telling  a  story.  "  Mr.  Norris  gets 
home  before  this." 

"  He  do  mostly.  He's  late  to-night. 
Is  it  anything  I  can  say  to  him  ?  " 

"  No — I  think  not,"  replied  Fry,  as  if 
in  deliberation.  "  I  just  wanted  to  say 
a  word  to  him   myself.     It  can    wait." 

But,  even  as  she  was  speaking,  Mr. 
Norris  approached  the  door.  He  had 
come  from  Aberton  by  the  usual  train,  but 
had  called  on  some  friend  at  Chilling. 

"  To  see  me,  Fry  ?  Come  in,  then. 
I  suppose  it's  about  that  money  you  let 
your  brother  have?"  added  the  lawyer, 
as  he  led  the  way  to  a  sitting-room. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


255 


"Yes,  sir,"  was  Fry's  bold  answer, 
for  the  benefit  of  any  ears  that  might  he 
open.  "  If  he  can't  give  me  the  money 
back,  he  might  try  and  pay  me  interest." 

But,  when  the  door  was  closed,  she 
presented  the  note  in  silence,  and  waited. 
Mr.  Norris  read  it,  glanced  at  Fry,  and 
read  it  again. 

"  Do  you  know  the  purport  of  this?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  b'lieve  it  is  to  ask  you 
to  come  to  the  Rock  to-morrow  night ; 
and  I  am  to  let  }rou  in  by  the  postern- 
door." 

"  Just  so.  Your  mistress  says  she 
wishes  to  see  me." 

He  looked  at  Fry,  and  she  looked  at 
him.  Each  of  them  would  have  liked 
to  speak  out  pretty  freely  to  the  other. 

"  I  fancied  that  postern  entrance  was 
wholly  unused,  Fry.  It's  years  since 
I've  heard  it  mentioned  ;  I'm  not  sure 
but  I  had  half  forgotten  there  was  such 
an  entrance." 

"  It  was  me  that  thought  of  it,"  said 
Fry,  proud  of  being  able  so  far  to  com- 
pliment her  own  memory.  "There's 
folks  in  our  bouse  no  better  than  watch- 
ful cats,  and  the  servants  be  nothing  but 
tattling  gossipers." 

"  And  your  mistress  is  virtually  a 
prisoner,  eh,  Fry  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  but  she  is,  sir. 
For  one  thing,  she  don't  seem  to  care  to 
be  anything  else.  As  to  the  Rock,  that 
was  once  so  gay,  it  seems  no  better  now 
than  a  dungeon.  A  rare  bother  I  had 
to  get  that  postern-door  open.  What 
message  am  I  to  take  back,  sir?" 

"  Say  to  Mrs.  Dawkes  that  I  will  come. 
She  mentions  seven  :  at  that  hour  I  will 
be  at  the  postern-door." 

"  All  right,"  said  Fry.  "  If  you  will 
come  into  the  grounds,  sir,  by  that  little 
private  gate  on  the  south  side,  it  will 
bring  you  past  the  Lady's  Well  to  the 
postern-door  ;  and  you'll  not  be  likely  to 
meet  anybody,  my  mistress  says.  I 
don't  suppose  you  mind  about  what  used 
to  be  talked  of — that  the  way  was 
haunted  ?  " 

"  Not  very  much,"  said  Mr.  Norris, 
with  a  silent  laugh.  "  I  hear  your 
mistress  is  looking  very  ill,  Fry." 

''  She  is  just  as  ill  as  she  looks,"  was 
Fry's  answer.  "It  won't  be  long,  sir, 
as  far  as  I  believe,  before  she  goes  after 
the  poor  child  she's  always  regretting." 

Mr.  Norris  saw  Fry  out  himself,  whis- 


pering to  her  a  last  charge,  to  be  at  her 
post  in  readiness  for  him  on  the  follow- 
ing night.  Fry  dashed  on  to  the  gen- 
eral shop  in  the  village — for  her  wanting 
the  new  aprons  had  been  no  false  excu.se 
— and  went  home  with  the  checked  mus- 
lin in  triumph.  Keziah  said  a  sharp 
word  to  her  —  poor  Caroline  was  in 
weary  waiting  for  her  bed — which  Fry 
flung  back  again. 

And  when  the  next  day  came,  circum- 
stances seemed  really  to  be  favoring 
Caroline.  She  was  so  weak,  and  looked 
so  ill,  that  Keziah,  paying  her  morning 
visit,  advised  her  not  to  move  out  of  her 
room  all  day.  At  dusk  Fry  was  down 
stairs  ;  and  coming  in  contact  with  Miss 
Dawkes,  said  her  mistress  was  still  in 
bed,  and  had  given  her  orders  to  close  up 
the  green  baize  door  for  the  night,  wish- 
ing for  perfect  quiet  in  the  wing.  Miss 
Dawkes  nodded  her  head  complacently, 
and  told  Fry  to  be  cautious  not  to  make 
any  noise  herself. 

But  the  first  thing  Fry  did,  after  bolt- 
ing and  barring  the  said  door,  was  to  as- 
sist her  mistress  to  dress  and  proceed  to 
the  sitting-room.  The  fire  burnt  with  a 
bright  blaze,  the  room  had  its  full  amount 
of  light.  Cai'oline,  sipping  her  tea, 
looked  the  only  faded  thing  in  it.  She 
wore  her  usual  black-silk  gown — a  mile 
too  large  for  her  ;  it  was  covered  with  a 
shawl ;  and  her  beautiful  hair  hung  care- 
lessly. Excitement  lent  her  both  heat 
and  color.  In  the  state  of  sickness  she 
was,  bodily  and  mentally,  this  coming 
interview  with  the  lawyer,  and  what  she 
must  say  at  it,  put  her  into  a  veritable 
fever. 

"Fry!  Fry!" 

Fry  came  in  at  the  nervous  covert  call. 

"  It  is  seven  o'clock,  Fry.  You  ought 
to  be  down  at  the  postern-door." 

Mrs.  Dawkes  had  sat  with  her  fever- 
ish eyes  fixed  on  the  mantel-piece  clock. 
The  hands  were  fast  approaching  the 
hour. 

"  It  wrants  six  minutes  good,  ma'am, 
by  the  right  time ;  that  clock  is  five 
minutes  too  fast.  Mr.  Owen  said  so 
when  he  was  here  to-day  ;  and  I  know  it 
besides." 

"  Mr.  Norris's  watch  may  be  fast  also. 
He  must  not  be  kept  waiting,  Fry." 

"No  fear.  Them  lawyers  are  never 
afore  their  time,  ma'am,  unless  it's  to 
sue  a  poor  man  for  money." 

"  Fry,  I  tell  you  to  go  down.     Better 


256 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL 


for  you  to  wait  than  for  Mr.  Norris.    He 
might  go  away  again." 

Fry,  grumbling  a  little,  took  her  lamp, 
and  went  clown.  Waiting  at  that  dusty 
door,  with  the  wind  moaning  amid  the 
trees  outside,  and  the  ghost  farther  off' 
— it  was  said  to  come  always  on  a  windy 
night — was  not  altogether  agreeable. 
But  she  had  not  stood  there  long  when 
footsteps  were  heard,  the  boughs  were 
pushed  aside,  and  Mr.  Norris  stood 
there. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  How  is  your 
mistress  to-night  ?  " 

"  She  is  just  as  fidgety  as  she  can  be, 
thinking  I  should  not  be  down  here  in 
time,  and  you  might  go  away  again," 
was  Fry's  answer.  "  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is,  sir  :  if  the  excitement  of  folks  com- 
ing to  her  this  way  was  to  last,  she'd 
just  be  in  her  grave  before  her  time. 
All  dajr  long  she  has  kept  her  bed, 
through  nothing  but  the  fever  and  wor- 
ry she  was  in  last  night  from  knowing 
I  had  come  to  you.  Can  you  see,  sir  ? 
I'll  go  on  with  the  lamp." 

"  These  stairs  don't  get  wider  with 
age,"  remarked  the  lawyer,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"  They  are  the  steepest  and  narrowest 
stairs  it  was  ever  a  lady's  lot  to  go  up  or 
down,"  was  Fry's  answer  ;  "  which 
stands  to  reason,  seeing  they  are  built  in 
the  wall.  I'd  as  soon  come  down  a  lad- 
der :  and  sooner — there'd  be  less  danger 
of  pitching  over." 

"  As  I  did  once,"  said  Mr.  Norris. 

"You!"  exclaimed  Fry,  stopping  to 
turn  and  look  at  him  in  the  midst  of  the 
said  stairs.  "  Were  you  ever  here  before, 
sir  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  in  the  days  of  Edgar  Canter- 
bury. "  The  place  has  never  been  dusted 
since  that  time,  I  should  think,  Fry. 
My  gloves  are  covered." 

"  It  has  never  been  as  much  as  open- 
ed, let  alone  dusted,"  answered  Fry. 
"  Here  we  are,  sir." 

With  alight  tread  the  lawyer  stepped 
through  the  lumber-closet,  and  into  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Dawkes.  The  shawl 
had  slipped  from  her  shoulders.  Very 
thin  and  worn  and'shadowy  did  she  look  ; 
and  Mr.  Norris  could  but  contrast  the 
poor  faded  thing  before  him  with  the 
beautiful  and  blooming  girl  whose  en- 
trance into  the  Canterbury  family  had 
caused  so  much  trouble  and  heart-burn- 


ing. He  had  hated  the  intruder  in  his 
heart  of  hearts,  for  a  love  of  justice  was 
implanted  strongly  within  him,  lav^er 
though  he  was  ;  but  in  this  moment  his 
resentment  passed  away  with  a  cry  of 
pity,  for  he  almost  thought  he  was  look- 
ing on  the  dead. 

"  Poor  thing  !"  he  involuntarily  mur- 
mured, as  he  took  her  hand.  "  My  dear, 
you  are  very  ill." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  the  time  is 
getting  short  now.  That  is  why  I  was 
so  anxious  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Norris  sat  down  by  her,  and  they 
talked  together  in  a  low  tone.  The  con- 
sciousness of  the  necessity  of  secrecy  lay 
upon  them,  otherwise  both  knew  it  was 
impossible  they  could  be  overheard.  Mr. 
Norris  had  been  cognisant  of  the  past 
troubles  connected  with  Edgar  Canter- 
bur}T,  and  he  knew  this  part  of  the  house 
just  as  well  as  its  present  mistress. 

Caroline  told  him  what  she  wanted — a 
will  made  that  would  in  a  degree  repair 
the  injustice  of  Lhe  last  one.  Without 
speaking  with  the  express  plainness  she 
had  used  to  Thomas  Kage,  Mr.  Norris 
gathered  a  vast  deal.  He  nodded  his 
head,  and  drew  in  his  lips,  and  thought 
it  was  altogether  about  the  most  remark- 
able case  he  had  ever  come  across. 

"  I  could  not  die  in  peace  if  I  did  not 
make  the  will,"  she  said  with  feverish 
lips.  "  I  should  never  rest  in  my 
grave." 

"  My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "  there's 
no  earthly  reason  why  you  should  not 
make  one.  It's  what  you  ought  to  do. 
As  to  that  watchful  person  downstairs,  I 
think  we  can  manage  to  keep  her  in  the 
dark.  If  you  were  in  stronger  health,  I 
should  advise  a  totally  different  course 
of  procedure  ;  but — " 

"  But  I  am  not  strong  enough  for  it," 
interrupted  Caroline  with  painful  eager- 
ness. "  You  mean  open  opposition,  the 
asserting  of  my  own  position  and 
rights ;  but  if  matters  came  to  that,  it 
would  kill  me." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  Will  }-ou  write  down  my  instruc- 
tions ?  I  have  thought  of  all  I  wish  to 
do — and  say." 

Mr.  Norris  took  some  paper  from  his 
pocket,  a  pen,  and  a  tiny  ink-boltle. 
He  began  unscrewing  the  stopper. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  be  legal  ? "  she 
said. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S     WILL 


257 


He  did  not  understand.  "What  le- 
gal ?  the  will  ?  Most  certainly.  Why 
should  it  not  be  ?  " 

"I  thought — because  it  is  made  in 
secret." 

"  As  a  vast  many  wills  are  made. 
Trust  to  me  for  its  being  in  due  order. 
And  now — " 

What  Mr.  Norris  was  about  to  say 
received  a  most  startling  interruption — 
startling,  at  least,  to  one  who  heard  it. 
It  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  green- 
'baize  door,  followed  by  the  voice  of  Ke- 
ziah Dawkes. 

Caroline  gave  a  faint  cry.  Were  Mr. 
Norris  to  be  seen  with  her,  all  was  at 
an  end. 

With  her  trembling  hands  clasped 
upon  her  bosom — with  her  poor  face 
whiter  than  ashes — with  steps  that  tot- 
tered as  she  stood,  and  a  sick  faintness 
that  seemed  as  if  it  must  overpower  her, 
Caroline  looked  forth. 

"  Don't  answer,  don't  answer  !  "  she 
breathed  to  Fry,  who  had  appeared  at 
her  own  door  with  a  carelessly-defiant 
countenance. 

'•  Not  going  to,"  nodded  Fry  in  a 
whisper.  "Let  her  think  I've  gone  to 
bed  myself.  —  That's  right,  Madam 
Dawkes;  you  can  knock  again." 

'■  Fry  !  Fry  !  "  cried  out  Keziah,  "  it's 
a  letter  for  your  mistress;  it  has  'Im- 
mediate '  marked  upon  it." 

No  response.  Keziah  went  away 
grumbling.  Things  were  coine  to  a 
pretty  pass,  she  thought,  when  servants 
went  to  bed  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening. 

"  All  right,  Madam  Dawkes  !  "  said 
impudent  Fry  ;  "  you  don't  get  over  me. 
The  letter  will  have  to  keep,  though  it 
came  from  the  Pope  o'  Rome." 

But  later,  when  Mr.  Norris,  his  busi- 
ness for  the  night  accomplished,  had  been 
escorted  down  the  postern-stairs  and  was 
safely  away,  Fry  went  to  Miss  Dawkes 
with  a  face  as  bold  as  brass.  Asking 
whether,  or  not,  anybody  had  knocked  : 
she  fancied  to  have  heard  it,  but  was  en- 
gaged at  the  time  with  her  mistress. 

And  the  letter  proved  to  be  nothing  but 
a  note  from  Mr.  Owen,  containing  some  in- 
structions in  regard  to  the  medicine  Mrs. 
Dawkes  was  taking  that  he  had  omitted 
to  give  in  the  morning  when  paj'ing  his 
visit  to  the  Rock. 

"  Shall  I    get    the   will    executed,   or 
1G 


not  ?"  murmured  poor  Caroline  from  her 
sleepless  bed,  when  the  household  was 
hushed  in  sleep.  It  seems  a  great  chance. 
Perhaps  Heaven  will  help  me  !  " 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE    LAST    AND    FINAL    "WILL. 

In  the  comfortable  compartment  of  a 
first-class  carriage,  one  of  a  train  that 
was  on  its  way  to  Chilling,  sat  Major 
Dawkes.  It  was  not  a  cold  day  by  any 
means,  for  spring  sunshine  lay  on  the 
earth,  wooing  the  hedges  to  start  into 
bud,  the  flowers  to  blossom  ;  but  Major 
Dawkes  liked  to  travel  warmly,  and  a  ricil 
fur  wrapper,  lined  with  wool  and  scarlet 
silk,  lay  on  his  knees.  His  cheeks  wore 
their  usual  bloom,  his  whiskers  were  of 
the  same  old  purple  richness,  and  the  Ma- 
jor was  decidedly  getting  plump  :  but  he 
composed  his  countenance  to  a  grave  sad- 
ness befitting  the  occasion,  for  he  was 
hastening  dowu  to  his  wife's  deathbed. 

At  least  he  would  have  told  you  lie 
was  hastening — as  lie  did  incidentally  toll 
the  old  lad}7  and  gentleman  seated  opp> 
site  to  him  in  the  carriage — for  he  was 
rather  given  to  indulge  in  little  boasts  of 
fiction.  But  the  real  fact  was,  that  in- 
stead of  hastening  down,  he  had  so  con- 
trived to  retard  his  movements,  that  the 
closing  scene  would  in  all  probability 
be  over  before  he  arrived.  Which  was 
what  he  secretly  wished. 

Mrs.  Dawkes  had  lingered  longer  than 
was  expected  by  herself,  by  her  medical 
attendants,  or  by  anyone  about  her. 
Strange  somewhat  to  say,  with  the  cold 
weather  of  the  winter  she  had  rallied  a 
little.  If  it  could  not  be  said  that  she 
grew  materially  better,  at  least  she  did 
not  appear  worse ;  her  progress  to  the 
grave  seemed  to  have  made  a  halt — to 
have  become  for  the  time  stationary. 
But  the  life  she  led  was  not  any  the  less 
secluded ;  with  the  exception  of  the  doc- 
tors and  Mr.  Rufort,  she  scarcely  saw 
any  one  ;  visitors  to  her  were,  she  ac- 
knowledged, utterly  distasteful.  The 
former  restlessness  of  mind  and  manner 
had  subsided,  and  given  place  to  a  still 
calmness.  Very  peacefully  did  she  seem 
to  wait  for  the  coming  death.  Nay,  to 
welcome  it. 


258 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


In  February  Mrs.  Kage  died.  Keziah 
Dawkes,  who  took  upon  herself  the  or- 
dering of  matters,  let  her  be  buried  with- 
out any  needless  ceremony  ;  neither  Ma- 
jor Dawkes  nor  Thomas  Kage  was  in- 
vited to  attend  the  funeral.  Caroline 
seemed  not  to  care  one  way  or  the  other, 
and  did  not  interfere  ;  her  poor  mother 
was  "  better  off,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Rufort, 
and  it  seemed  to  be  her  whole  feeling  in 
regard  to  it.  So  Keziah  had  it  all  her 
own  way.  Later,  Mrs.  Dawkes  began 
herself  to  droop  again  ;  and  when  it  be- 
came apparent  that  the  end  was  close  at 
hand,  Keziah  sent  up  a  telegram  to  her 
brother.  The  Major  telegraphed  up  to 
say  he  was  "  on  duty,"  but  would  get 
away  as  immediately  as  he  could.  He 
had  always  made  "  duty "  a  standing 
plea  of  excuse.  Quietly  suffering  two 
days  to  elapse,  the  Major  then  went 
down. 

The  first  person  he  saw  at  Chilling  sta- 
tion was  Mr.  Carlton  of  the  Hall  :  quite 
a  young  man  in  activity  still,  in  spite  of 
his  more  than  seventy  years.  He  hap- 
pened to  be  on  the  platform  when  Major 
Dawkes  alighted.  The  latter  (privately 
wishing  him  a  hundred  miles  off)  went  up 
to  him  with  outstretched  hand  and  a  face 
as  long  as  a  walking-stick,  mournfully 
hoping  his  dear  wife  was  better. 

'•'  She  is  dead,"  said  Mr.  Carlton,  pri- 
vately believing  just  as  much  and  as  little 
of  the  displayed  concern  as  he  chose. 

"  Dead  !    My  wife  dead  !  " 

"  She  died  at  five  o'clock  this  morning, 
Major  Dawkes.  So  you  are  somewhat 
late,  you  see.  Some  of  us  thought  you 
might  have  been  coming  earlier." 

"  Duty,"  groaned  the  Major,  bolting 
into  the  only  fly  waiting.  "  Dear  me  ! 
— Richard,  see  to  my  portmanteau." 

Keziah,  gray  in  face  as  ever,  but  in- 
tensely calm,  received  him  in  one  of  the 
smallest  and  snuggest  sitting-rooms.  He 
went  through  the  same  farce  here — the 
plea  of  "  duty."  She  believed  just  as 
much  as  she  chose ;  but  she  held  his 
hand  in  hers,  and  murmured  her  heart- 
felt thanks  that  he,  her  ever-beloved 
brother,  was  free  at  last. 

"  Got  any  of  the  brown  sherry  up, 
Keziah  ?  » 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  I'll  take  some." 

Miss  Dawkes  went  and  brought  it  in 
herself.  The  Major  drank  two  glasses  of 
it  at  once,  Keziah  fondly  watching  him. 


"  All's  right,  I  suppose,  Keziah  ?  " 
"  All  is  quite  right.     But  I  don't  ex- 
actly know  what  you  mean." 

"  She  expressed  no  wish  at  the  last 
about  the  property,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  None.  It  was  the  same  as  usual  to 
the  last  hour  of  her  life — utter  indiffer- 
ence to  all  worldly  things.  She  never 
mentioned  her  property  at  all ;  I  feel 
sure  she  did  not  so  much  as  think  of  it." 
"  All's  mine,  then." 
"  Everything,  Barby  dear,  every- 
thing." 

The  Major  dashed  off  another  glass  of 
the  famous  brown  sherry — the  same  that 
Mr.  Canterbury  in  his  life-time  used  to 
boast  of.  Major  Dawkes's  head  was 
strong;  a  few  glasses  more  or  less  of 
good  old  wine  made  no  difference  to  him. 
"  You  s  e  now  the  utility  of  my  tak- 
ing care  that  Caroline  had  no  opportunity 
of  making  a  will,  Keziah.  She  might 
have  got  bequeathing  some  of  her  money 
to  thos^  C  mterbury  women." 

"  As  if  I  should  have  allow-d  it !  "  re- 
sponded Keziah.  "  Barnaby,  it  is  an 
immense  inheritance." 

The  Major  smacked  his  lips  ;  partty  at 
the  sherry,  parti}'  at  the  suggested 
thought.  He  liked  to  be  reminded  that 
he  was  a  millionaire. 

"  You  shall  have  a  share  in  it,  Kez. 
I  shall  set  you  up  in  comfort  for  life. 
This  is  real  property,  you  see  ;  what  I 
came  into  when  I  married  was  but  a  lim- 
ited income." 

Keziah  smiled.  "  Limited  !  " 
"  Well  it  toas  in  comparison.  The 
bulk  of  the  property  lay  in  Kage's  hands 
then,  as  the  child'  trustee.  I  wonder 
what  he'll  think  now — hang  him  !  Have 
you  seen  anything  of  the  fellow  late- 
ly?" 

"No.  He  has  not  been  down  since 
that  one  visit.  When  Mrs.  Dunn  went 
up  to  her  house  in  London  for  Christmas, 
she  took  the  Miss  Canfcerburys  with 
her;  and  they  have  not  long  come  back 
again.  Lydia  Dunn  is  with  them.  Kage 
has  written  to  Caroline  two  or  three  times, 
but  she  gave  me  the  letters  to  answer." 
"What  was  in  his  letters?" 
'^Nothing  much.  Inquiries  after 
health,  and  that.  It  is  all  right,  Barby  ; 
it  has  all  been  smooth  as  glass." 

Barby  stroked  his  whiskers  compla- 
cently'. Yes,  it  had  all  been  smooth, 
his  heart  responded,  and  h.e  was  ^vast 
inheritor. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    AYILL 


259 


"  I  wish  to  goodness  that  miserable 
old  woman  was  alive  now,  Keziah  ;  our 
ancient  aunt.  She'd  open  her  eyes  at 
my  wealth.  Her  own,  that  she  grudged 
me,  was  a  flea-bite  by  the  side  of  it." 

"  I  wish  she  was,  Barby.  'Tvrould 
give  her  a  fit  of  the  spleen." 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Major 
Dawkes  turned  and  gave  the  fire  a  knock 
with  his  boot. 

"  Did  she  suffer  much  at  the  last  ?  " 
"  0  no,"  was   the  reply,   for   Keziah 
knew  he  was  speaking  of  his  wife.     "  She 
drifted    out    of    life   very   quietly    and 
calmly." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  Mr.  Rufort.  Hearing 
of  the  Major's  arrival,  he  had  come  up 
to  see  him,  having  been  charged  with  a 
note  from  Mrs.  Dawkes.  The  Major 
took  it  wonderingly,  perhaps  with  some 
inward  trepidation  ;  but  it  proved  to  be 
a  very  harmless  missive  indeed — merely 
expressing  some  wishes  about  her  fun- 
eral. 

She  had  first  of  all  expressed  them  to 
Mr.  Rufort  in  the  presence  of  Keziah, 
though  Keziah  only  partially  gathered 
their  purport,  for  she  had  been  engaged 
at  the  moment  in  a  wordy  war  with  Fry. 
Mr.  Rufort  had  suggested  to  Mrs. 
Dawkes  that  she  should  convey  them  in 
a  note  to  her  husband  ;  and  she  so  far 
complied  as  to  pencil  down  the  wishes 
on  paper,  put  it  in  an  envelope,  and  di- 
rect it  to  the  Major,  charging  Mr.  Rufort 
to  deliver  it. 

It  appeared  that  she  desired  the  same 
friends  and  relatives  to  attend  her  fun- 
eral who  had  attended  her  former  hus- 
band's—  Mr.  Canterbury.  She  wished 
the  Miss  Canterburys  to  be  invited  to 
spend  the  day  of  the  funeral  at  the  Rock 
— as  they  had  been  at  the  former  one — 
also  Mrs.  Rufort ;  and  Mrs.  Dunn,  as 
she  was  staying  at  Chilling.  In  short, 
she  directed  tfiat  the  arrangements  for 
this  funeral,  with  one  notable  exception, 
should  be  similar  to  the  last  that  went 
out  of  the  Rock.  Mr.  Canterbury  had 
been  put  into  his  grave  with  all  the  pomp 
and  pageantry  of  a  theatrical  show  :  she 
was  to  be  taken  to  it  with  the  smallest 
ceremony  and  expense  that  should  be 
deemed  consistent. 

Major  Dawkes,  relieved  of  any  private 
doubts,  was  all  suavity.  Had  his  late 
wife  wished  that  the  whole  parish  should 


be  at  the  Rock  that  day,  he  would  cor- 
dially have  invited  them. 

"  Your  late  wife's  wishes  appear  very 
simple  ones,  Major  Dawkes  ;  I  presume 
there  will  be  no  difficulty  put  in  the  way 
of  their  being  carried  out,"  observed  the 
Rector. 

"  None  in  the  world,"  heartily  replied 
the  Major. 

"  She  seemed  to  make  a  great  point  of 
it — the  dj'ing  have  these  fancies  you 
know — and  begged  me  to  see  them  car- 
ried out.  I  told  her  I  could  only  urge  it 
upon  you,  Major,  and  that  she  had  bet- 
ter write  to  j'ou  herself." 

"  They  are  precisely  my  own  wishes," 
spoke  the  complaisant  Major.  "  Only 
the  half  of  any  wish,  expressed  by  my 
dear  departed  wife,  I  can  but  look  upon 
as  a  solemn  charge,  strictly  to  be  com- 
plied with.  Perhaps  you  will  oblige  me 
by  giving  in  the  list  of  people  yourself, 
Mr.  Rufort ;  I  was  not  at  Mr.  Canter- 
bury's funeral,  and  might  make  a  mis- 
take over  it." 

But  in  one  sense,  he  had  been  at  Mr. 
Canterbury's  funeral.  For  he  had 
watched  the  pageant  along  the  road,  and 
made  his  comments.  The  recollection 
flashed  into  his  mind  now,  bringing  a 
flush  to  his  face.  His  hopeless  condition 
then,  and  his  flourishing  state  now,  were 
indeed  a  strange  contrast. 

"  Who  conducts  the  funeral  ?  "  he 
asked,  turning  to  Keziah. 

"  I  have  given  no  orders,"  she  replied. 
"  I  waited  for  you." 

"  I  wonder  who  conducted  Mr.  Canter- 
bury's ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  you  about  that,"  said  the 
Rector.  "Young  Mrs.  Canterbury  was 
inexperienced  ;  and  at  her  request  Norris 
the  solicitor  undertook  all  the  trouble  of 
it,  transmitting  her  wishes  himself  to  the 
proper  quarters.  Of  course  he  charged 
for  his  time." 

"  Then  I  think  Norris  had  better  un- 
dertake this  one,"  spoke  the  Major  in  a 
fit  of  liberality.  "  You  can  write  to  him, 
Keziah." 

In  his  anxiety  that  things  should  go 
smoothly,  that  all  unpleasant  reminis- 
cences of  the  past  should  be  kept  down, 
as  well  as  reflections  on  the  present,  Ma- 
jor Dawkes  was  eagerly  desirous  that 
these  wishes  of  his  wife's  should  be  car- 
ried out  to  the  letter.  A  conviction 
darted  across  him  that  it  would  be  any- 


2i30 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


thing  but  agreeable  to  have  the  Canter- 
bury family  at  the  Rock  on  the  day  of 
the  funeral,  and  he  would  very  much  in- 
deed dislike  the  presence  of  Thomas 
Kage  ;  but  there  was  no  help  for  it.  If 
he  refused  compliance,  how  could  he  tell 
that  something  would  not  be  made  of  it  ? 
— tungues  were  so  venomous  :  that  the 
very  idea  of  any  inquiry  or  unpleasant- 
ness turned  him  sick  with  an  undefined 
fear.  Refuse  concession  in  this  little 
matter,  and  people  might  but  a  k  how- 
lie  had  come  into  all  the  money,  and 
what  right  he  had  to  it.  No;  the  very 
conciousness  that  it  might  be  suspected 
he  had  wished  for  his  wife's  death,  made 
him  all  the  more  scrupulous,  if  only  from 
prudential  considerations,  to  carry  out 
her  wishes  to  the  extreme  letter.  Had 
they  been  transmitted  to  him  in  private, 
he  would  simply  have  put  them  and  the 
paper  they  were  written  on  into  the 
nearest  tire;  but  they  came  publicly, 
through  the  Honorable  and  Reverend 
Austin  Rufort. 

"  I  should  have  refused,  Barnaby,  had 
I  been  you,"  remarked  Keziah,  as  she 
finished  the  note  to  Mr.  Norn's,  after 
they  were  left  alone.  "  It  will  be  fright- 
fully disagreeable  to  have  the  Canter- 
bury family  here." 

"  You  are  a  foul,  Keziah." 

"  For  myself  I  don't  mind ;  but  I  am 
sure  von  will  not  like  it,  Barby  dear," 
she  resumed,  passing  over  in  silence  the 
compliment  to  herself. 

"  Don't  you  see  there  was  no  help  for 
it  ?  ' 

"  Yes,  there  was.  You  are  now  sole 
master  here,  and  need  fear  no  one." 

"  I  don't  know  about  fear,"  said  the 
Major  dreamily.  "  One  likes  to  stand 
well  in  the  world's  opinion.  The  invi- 
tation must  be  given  to  them  and  Kage 
also ;  but  I  should  think  the  Canter- 
bury's will  not  accept  it.  They  must 
feel  that  they  have  no  business  here, 
and  will  be  quite  out  of  place.  How 
she  came  to  think  of  so  foolish  a  thing, 
is  beyond  me  to  imagine." 

"  Some  idea  of  respect  to  their  father 
and  to  them  must  have  been  floating  in 
her  weakened  head,  poor  creature,"  sur- 
mised Keziah.  "  She  was  Mr.  Canter- 
bury's wife  once,  and  would  not  have 
his  daughters  quite  ignored  at  her  funer- 
al. I  wish  the  dajr  was  over.  Barnaby, 
if  I  were  you  I  should  let  the  Rock." 


"  I  shall  sell  it,"  said  the  Major,  im- 
proving upon  the  suggestion.  "  If  I 
can  get  my  price  for  it." 

He  rather  wished  with  Keziah  that 
the  funeral-clay  was  over :  and  it  was 
fixed  for  an  early  one.  The  presence 
of  those  ladies  and  of  Thomas  Kage 
would  no  doubt  a  little  put  him  out  of 
ease.  But  it  could  not  last  more  than 
its  appointed  hours,  and  he  determined 
to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  act  the  host 
with  courteous  grace.  The  anticipation 
did  not  disturb  him:  he  was  in  too  gra- 
cious a  mood  for  that.  His  golden 
dreams  were  at  last  realised,  and  with 
the  death  of  his  wife  all  tormenting 
dread  had  passed  away.  This  magnifi- 
cent mansion  and  its  magnificent  reve- 
nues were  his  ;  his  only,  as  Keziah  said  ; 
it  was  a  costly  nugget  to  have  come  in- 
to :  and  that  there  could  be  any  doubt 
that  he  had  come  into  it,  never  for  the 
faintest  shadow  of  a  moment  crossed 
Major  Dawkes's  mind. 

Once  more  a  stately  funeral  issued 
from  the  Rock.  In  one  respect  Major 
Dawkes  ignored  his  dead  wife's  com- 
mands and  abandoned  the  simplicity 
she  had  expressed  a  wish  for.  If  the 
funeral  procession  was  not  quite  of  the 
gorgeous  nature  that  had  characterised 
Mr.  Canterbury's,  the  show  was  at  least 
sumptuous  to  look  at  it.  In  a  coach  all 
to  himself,  following  next  the  hearse,  sat 
the  bereaved  Major,  black  with  all  the 
trappings  of  woe.  In  the  next  were 
Thomas  Kage  and  Austin  Rufort;  the 
latter  attending  as  mourner  and  relative 
to-day,  not  as  pastor.  And  so  ou,  a 
string  of  coaches  and  carriages  imposing 
to  the  eye. 

George  Canterbury's  daughters  had 
accepted  the  invitation  to  the  Rock, 
very  much  to  Major  and  Miss  Dawkes's 
secret  surprise,  as  well  as  to  that  of  the 
neighborhood.  The  only  one  of  them 
who  had  fought  against  it  was  Mrs. 
Dunn.  Millicent  was  passive  as  usual. 
Olive  decided  that  they  should  go. 
After  this  day,  all  connection  with  the 
Rock  and  with  the  second  family  would 
be  at  an  end,  she  observed  ;  and  it  was 
well  for  the  parting  to  have  a  peaceful 
feeling  about  it.  Besides  which,  it  was 
the  last  expressed  wish  of  poor  Caroline 
Dawkes,  and  therefore  to  be  complied 
with. 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


201 


So  the  four  sisters,  attired  in  suitable 
mourning,  arrived  at  the  Rock  a  short 
while  before  the  hour  fixed  on  for  the 
funeral.  They  sat  in  the  grand  drawing- 
room — Olive,  Mrs.  Rufort,  Mrs.  Dunn, 
and  Millicent.  Keziah,  in  deep  black, 
also  was  there,  playing  the  hostess. 
Civility  reigned,  of  course  ;  but,  in 
spite  of  effort,  the  conversation  flagged, 
only  a  remark  being  made  now  and 
then.  Once,  Mrs.  Dunn,  in  her  free 
wa}r,  found  fault  with  some  arrangement 
at  the  lodge,  saying  their  carriage  had 
waited  at  least  three  minutes  for  the 
gates  to  be  opened.  She  could  not  tell 
for  her  part,  why  they  were  closed  at 
all. 

"  The  keeper  is  getting  negligent," 
observed  Keziah  ;  "  my  brother  intends 
to  discharge  him.  There  are  several  al- 
terations and  changes  he  means  to 
make  ;  but  he  thought  it  as  well  to  let 
them  be  during  Mrs.  Dawkes's  life." 

No  answer  from  anybody.  Mrs. 
Dunn  had  to  bite  her  rebellious  tongue 
though,  which  had  a  mind  to  tell  Keziah 
that  the  power  to  make  alterations  be- 
fore lay  with  the  Major's  wife,  not  with 
him. 

A  weary  while  it  seemed  to  wait  ; 
and,  in  truth,  even  Olive  wondered  why 
they  should  have  been  summoned  to  the 
Rock,  and  thought  it  was  somewhat 
of  a  mistake.  But  the  coaches  were 
coming  back  at  last,  with  their  slow 
tread,  bearing  the  immediate  personal 
friends  of  the  family.  The  comparative 
strangers  were  taken  home  direct  from 
the  churehj-ard. 

As  the  coaches  stopped  at  the  entrance, 
Major  Dawkes  (who  had  been  pnvatelj7 
hoping  nobody  would  alight)  found  that 
everybod}'  did  alight,  and  that  Norris  the 
solicitor  was  taking  upon  himself  to  in- 
vite the  company  to  enter.  The  Major 
turned  rather  red,  and  would  have  liked 
to  resent  the  liberty  ;  but,  in  the  face  of 
the  gentlemen,  could  not  say  he  did  not 
want  them  to  come  in.  While  he  hesitat- 
ed, Mr.  Norris  walked  forward,  threw 
open  the  door  of  the  library — a  room 
scarcely  used  since  Mr.  Canterbury's 
time — and  marshalled  the  people  to  it : 
Lord  Rufort  and  his  son,  Mr.  Carlton 
and  Mr.  Kage.  Major  Dawkes  brought 
up  the  rear,  and  politely  asked  them  if 
the}''  would  like  to  sit  down.  He  could 
not  imagine  why  they  need  have  enter- 


ed, or  what  fit  of  officiousness  had  taken 
Norris. 

But  Norris  had  disappeared.  Onlyfor 
an  instant,  when  he  came  in  with  the 
ladies — Mr.  Canterbury's  daughters  and 
Keziah.  They  all  sat  down  ;  and  then 
the  lawyer  adressed  Major  Dawkes. 

"  Shall  we  proceed  now,  sir,  to  read 
the  will  ?  " 

Major  Dawkes  looked  at  him. 
"  Whose  will  ?  " 
"  Your  late  wife's,  sir." 
"  Mrs.  Dawkes  made  no  will." 
"  Pardon    me,  Major  ;     Mrs.  Dawkes 
executed  a  wTill,  all  in  due  order.     She 
wrote  to  me  a  few  days  before  her  death, 
stating  it  would  be  found  in  the  large 
drawer  of  this  bureau,  quite  at  the  bot- 
tom, beneath  the  old  leases  and  the  other 
out-of-date  papers." 

The  lawyer  touched  a  piece  of  furniture 
as  he  spoke  ;  but  the  widower  smiled  with 
incredulity.  The  attention  of  the  whole 
room  was  aroused,  and  drawn  to  Mr.  Nor- 
ris. 

"  There  is  no  will,  I  tell  you,"  persist- 
ed the  Major.  "  My  wife  never  made 
one." 

"  Major  Dawkes,  she  did." 
■'  When  and  where  ?  " 
"In  this  house,  some  months  ago,"  re- 
plied the  lawyer.      "  I  made  it." 

Miss  Dawkes  half  rose  from  her  seat. 
Her  gray  face  had  a  scornful  look  on  it ; 
the  gruffness  of  her  voice  was  unpleasant- 
ly perceptible. 

"  Mrs.  Dawkes  made  no  will  in  this 
house  ;  I  can  take  upon  myself  to  assert 
it ;  and  you  never  were  here,  Mr.  Norris.'' 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam.  I  came 
here  and  took  Mrs.  Dawkes-'s  instructions 
for  a  will.  When  it  was  prepared,  I 
came  again,  and  brought  witnesses  with 
me  to  attest  her  signature." 

The  words  were  spoken  so  calmly,  in 
so  matter-of-fact  a  tone,  that  the  Major 
was  startled.  He  turned  a  look,  full  of 
evil,  upon  his  sister. 

"  It  is  false  !  "  she  cried,  utterly  refus- 
ing credence.  "  It  is  a  conspiracy  con- 
cocted amongst  the  Canterbury  family  to 
deprive  you  of  your  rights,  Barnaby.  I 
will  pledge  myself  to  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Dawkes  made  no  will :  she  could  not 
have  done  so  without  my  knowledge." 

"  Your  not  having  been  cognisant  of 
this  is  easily  explained,  madam,"  return- 
ed Mr.  Norris.     "  Mrs.  Dawkes  became 


232 


GEORGE     CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


possessed  of  an  idea  that  she  was  not 
quite  a  free  agent  in  her  own  house  :  cer- 
tainly was  not  permitted  to  be  so  much 
alone  as  she  desired  to  be.  She  there- 
fore retired  to  the  south  wing,  and  caus- 
ed the  baize  door  to  be  erected  to  shut  in 
her  apartments.  This,  so  far,  is  patent 
to  you  and  to  all.  Later,  when  she  had 
occasion  to  see  a  friend  or  two  in  private, 
she  ordered  the  small  postern-door  to  be 
unfastened.  It  leads  direct  up  to  those 
apartments,  and  by  that  means  she  was 
enabled  to  receive  her  visitors.  They 
were  confined,  however,  to  one  or  two. 
That  is  how  I  got  access  to  her." 

"  The  postern  -  door  ?  "  gasped  Miss 
Dawkes,  after  taking  in  the  sense  of  the 
lawyer's  words  with  a  sickening  heart. 
'4  What  postern-door  ?  I  did  not  know 
there  was  one." 

"  Possibly  not,  madam.  You  are,  com- 
paratively speaking,  a  stranger  here,  and 
the  door  is  hidden  by  trees,  and  has  nev- 
er been  used  of  late  years." 

Major  Dawkes,  amidst  a  multitude  of 
feelings  that  were  anything  but  agreea- 
ble, began  wondering  whether  he  had 
ever  known  of  the  postern-door.  At 
first  he  could  not  decide  ;  but  a  thought 
began  to  dawn  over  him  that  he  did  once 
hear  of  this,  and  had  afterwards  forgot- 
ten it. 

"  I  can  assure  you  Mrs.  Dawkes  made 
her  will,"  persisted  Mr.  Norris. 

"  And  I  can  assure  you  she  never  did," 
uselessly  persisted  Keziah. 

"  The  shortest  way  to  settle  it  is  to 
look  in  the  drawer  and  see  if.  there  is  a 
will,"  interrupted  Mr.  Carlton.  "  Mor- 
ris told  me,  coming  back  in  the  coach, 
that  I  am  one  of  the  executors." 

"You  are,"  said  Mr.  Norris ;  "and 
Lord  Rufort  is  the  other." 

Lord  Rufort  sat  still  in  his  chair,  too 
stately  to  be  moved  by  that,  or  by  any 
other  information ;  and  there  was  a 
pause. 

"  We  wait,  sir,"  he  said  to  Major 
Dawk  ps. 

Major  Dawkes  was  at  bay. 

"  My  lord,  there  is  no  will.  I  will 
equally  pledge  myself  to  it  with  my  sis- 
ter. It  will  be  useless  to  examine  the 
place." 

"  As  you  please,  Major  Dawkes,"  said 
Mi-.  Norris.  "  The  will  was  made,  and 
signed,  in  duplicate  ;  and  I  took  charge 
of  the  other  copy.      '  To  guard  against 


possible    accidents,'  Mrs.  Dawkes  said. 
I  have  it  with  me." 

Major  Dawkes,  foiled,  and  doubly  at 
bay,  searched  for  the  key  and  opened  the 
drawer.  There  was  the  will.  He  could 
have  gnashed  his  teeth,  but  for  those 
around.  He  sat  down,  and  bit  one  of 
the  fingers  of  his  black-kid  glove. 

"  She  may  have  left  half  the  money 
away  from  me,"  he  murmured  in  Keziah 'a 
ear,  dashing  his  hair  from  his  damp 
brow. 

Mr.  Norris  opened  the  deed  and  put 
on  his  spectacles. 

The  will  began  by  premising  that  no 
person  whatever  was  a  party  to  its  eon- 
tents  :  that  it  was  the  testator's  own 
uncounselled  act  and  deed,  biased  by  a 
sense  of  justice  alone.  There  were  a 
few  legacies  to  servants  and  friends  ;  the 
largest  was  one.  fift,y  pounds  a-year,  to 
the  nurse  Judith  for  her  life,  and  at  her 
disposal  afterwards ;  and  there  was  a 
command  that  the  remains  of  her  little 
bo}r  should  be  brought  from  the  ceme- 
tery at  Brompton,  to  be  finally  laid  by 
herself  and  his  father. 

Mr.  Norris  then  cleared  his  throat, 
and  the  Major  turned  red  with  expecta- 
tion. 

"  I  bequeath  this  mansion,  the  Rock, 
and  all  that  it  contains, — plate,  furniture, 
books,  pictures,  together  with  the  lands 
and  revenues  pertaining  to  it, — to  Olive 
Canterbury,  absolutely.  I  bequ  sath  the 
whole  of  the  money  of  which  I  may  die 
possessed,  the  remainder  of  the  lands,  the 
houses  (save  and  except  the  Rock),  to 
the  four  daughters  of  my  late  husband, 
George  Canterbury,  to  be  shared  by  them 
in  equal  portions.  I  bequeath  to  Thom- 
as Kage  my  gold  watch  and  chain,  with 
the  locket,  key,  and  seal  attached ;  and 
I  be,^  him  to  accept  them  a  token  of 
gratitude  for  his  unvarying  kindness  to 
me  and  his  solicitude  for  my  best  wel- 
fare. And  I  bequeath  to  my  present 
husband,  Barnaby  Dawkes,  the  sum  of 
five-and-twenty  pounds,  wherewith  to 
purchase  a  mourning-ring,  which  he  will 
wear  in  remembrance  of  my  dear  child, 
Thomas  Canterbuiw." 

Such,  shorn  of  its  technicalities,  was 
the  substance  of  the  will. 

An  intense  silence  prevailed  in  the 
room.  The  surprise  of  all  present  was 
so  great,  that  every  tongue  was  tied. 
Only  with  their  eyes  did  people  look  at 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


263 


each  other,  and  seem  to  question  whether 
it  was  a  dream. 

Major  Dawkes  sat,  a  pitiable  object  to 
look  upon,  like  unto  a  man  who  has  re- 
ceived his  death-blow.  Suddenly  the 
perspiration,  great  drops  of  it,  began 
breaking  out  on  his  livid  face.  Was  it 
the  fact  of  his  entire  disinheritance,  or 
the  peculiar  allusion  to  Thomas  Canter- 
bury, that  caused  his  face  to  wear  that 
deathly  hue  ?  He  was  a  ruined  man  : 
yesterday  he  stood  on  a  high  pinnacle, 
vaunting  his  wealth  and  position  ;  to-day 
he  was  hurled  from  it,  and  hurled  from 
it  for  ever. 

He  felt  reckless.  "  I  dispute  the 
will ! "  Cried  he,  in  his  desperation. 
"  Mr.  Norris,  you  will  take  mj*  instruc- 
tions preparatory  to  setting  it  aside.". 

Mr.  Norris  smiled.  "You  forget  that 
I  am  solicitor  to  the  Canterbury  family. 
— I  presume  I  may  say  so  much  ?  "  he 
added,  turning  to  Miss  Canterbury. 

Olive  bowed. 

"  Why,  you  might  just  as  well  tell 
the  'sun  not  to  shine,  as  attempt  to  set 
aside  a  plain  will  like  that,  Major," 
cried  Mr.  Carlton.  "  Though  I  sym- 
pathize with  your  disappointment, 
Dawkes,"  he  added,  "  I  cannot  imagine 
how  you  could  so  mortally  have  offended 
your  wife,   as  to  be  cut  off  with  noth- 

ing." 

"Very  strange  indeed!"  remarked 
Lord  Rufort.  And  "  Very  strange 
indeed  ! "  murmured  everybody  else, 
with  the  exception  of  the  lawyer  and 
Thomas  Kage. 

Mr.  Rufort  stepped  forward,  and  held 
out  a  small  parcel  towards  Mr.  Kage. 

"  It  is  the  legacy  mentioned  in  the 
will,"  said  he  ;  "  the  wyatch  and  chain. 
Mrs.  Dawkes  gave  it  into  my  charge  to 
convey  to  you." 

And  Thomas  Kage  rose  and  took  it,  a 
vivid  flush  of  bygone  recollections  dye- 
ing his  face. 

"  I  wonder  you  had  not  a  better  me- 
mento than  that ;  a  good  thumping  sum 
of  money,  for  instance,"  exclaimed  the 
unceremonious  Mr.  Carlton  to  Thomas 
Kage.  "  You  were  her  nearest  relative 
save  her  mother :  her  only  relative  liv- 
ing. The  chronometer  is  valuable, 
but  counts  for  nothing  as  a  legacy." 

"  In  legacies  from  friends  we  do  not 
look  at  value,  Mr.  Carlton,"  was 
Thomas  Kage's  reply,  given  in  a  low 
tone. 


Rut  Miss  Dawkes,  only  now  begin- 
ning to  recover  her  scared  senses,  could 
not  let  the  matter  rest.  She  must  fight 
it  out  to  the  last. 

"  When  my  brother  gives  it  as  his 
opinion  that  this  will  has  been  concocted, 
he  only  states  what  is  no  doubt  the  fact. 
Perhaps  you  Were  her  adviser,  sir  ?  " — 
turning  sharply  on  Mr.  Rufort. 

"  Indeed,  no,"  Mr.  Rufort  quietly 
replied  ;  "  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
will  in  any  way.  Mrs.  Dawkes  once 
said  to  me  that  her  pecuniary  affairs 
were  settled,  and  that  is  all  I  ever 
heard.  Had  any  one  asked  me,  previ- 
ous to  this  hour,  to  whom  her  fortune 
was  most  likely  left,  I  should  have  an 
swered,  to  her  husband.  I  never  sup- 
posed there  was  a  doubt  that  he  would 
have  it." 

"  Were  you  one  of  the  visitors  we 
now  hear  of  as  sneaking  in  through 
the  postern-door  ?  "  continued  the  angry 
lady. 

"  Certainly  not.  There  was  no  neces- 
sity. I  never  knew  the  postern-door 
had  been  unfastened.  Allow  me  to  re- 
mind you,  Miss  Dawkes,  that  3-ou  invari- 
ably made  a  third  at  my  interviews  with 
Mrs.  Dawkes,  up  to  the  last,"  pointedly 
concluded  Mr.  Rufort.  Had  she  wished 
for  any  private  conversation  with  me,  or 
I  with  her,  the  opportunity  was  not  af- 
forded for  it." 

True ;  very  true.  Keziah  drew  in 
her  thin  lips  as  she  mentally  acknowl- 
edged it.  And  0,  of  what  avail  had 
been  all  the  precaution  ?  Of  all 
moments  of  Keziah's  past  life,  this  was 
perhaps  the  most  hopelessly  miserable. 

A  general  rise  to  leave  shortly  took 
place  :  to  say  the  truth,  neither  the  Can- 
terbury family  nor  the  Dawkses  felt  at 
ease.  That  this  was  but  a  restitution 
of  the  justice  so  long  diverted,  Olive 
knew  ;  but  it  seemed  to  be  harder  than 
it  need  have  been  on  Major  Dawkes. 
Unless  —  a  suspicion  was  crossing  her 
mind  that  she  started  from  with  horror  ; 
and  would  willingly  have  put  far  away, 
but  that  thoughts  are  not  under  our  own 
control.  Mr.  Norris  approached  the 
Major. 

"  You  will  be  prepared  to  give  up  pos- 
session at  your  earliest  convenience, 
Major,"  he  said.  "  Not  at  your  incon- 
venience, you  know :  I  am  sure  Miss 
Canterbury  would  not  wish  that." 

And  perhaps,  of  all  the  shocks  he  had 


264 


GEORGE  CANTERBURY'S  WILL, 


receiver!  during  the  past  half-hour,  this 
practical  one  was  the  most  startling. 
Give  up  possession  ?  Ay,  give  up  pos- 
session of  all :  Major  Dawkes's  day  was 
over. 

It  seemed  impossible  to  realize  it. 
Watching  the  carriages  away,  through 
the  half-raised  blind,  it  seemed  simply 
impossible  that  it  could  be  reality.  A 
man  of  almost  unlimited  wealth  when 
he  rose  that  morning;  his,  the  fair  do- 
main, stretched  out  far  and  wide  ;  nu- 
merous servants  who  called  him  master  ; 
c  irriages  and  horses  at  his  sole  com- 
mand !  And  now — all  had  been  dashed 
down  at  one  fell  swoop,  and  he  was — 
what  he  was. 

Turning  to  Keziah  with  a  stamp  and 
an  evil  frown,  he  cursed  her.  It  was 
something  to  have  a  vent  for  blame  to 
stand  upon.  Cursed  her  want  of  vig- 
ilance, that  he  said  had  wrought  the 
mischief. 

"  Stay,  Barnabv,"  she  interposed. 
"  The  fault  lies  with  you — if  anywhere  ; 
certainly  not  with  me.  I  could  not  di- 
vine there  existed  a  private  door  to  the 
wing;  there  was  no  inspiration  to  tell 
it  me.  If  you  knew  of  it,  you  should 
have  warned  me." 

Ay.  But  then  his  memorj'-  had  plaj-ed 
him  treacherously. 

"It  appears  to  me  to  be  just  one  of 
those  unhappy  chances  of  life  for  which 
there  is  no  human  prevention,"  resumed 
Keziah,  her  tone  low  from  intense  inward 
pain.  "  I'd  never  have  failed  you,  Bar- 
naby, fair  play  being  given  me  ;.but  how 
could  I  combat  with  shadows  that  I  did 
not  know  were  there  ?  " 

Must  he  give  all  up  ?  Was  there  no 
possible  loophole  by  which  he  could  right 
matters  again — or  at  least  fight  for  it  ? 
The  Major  was  deeply  engaged  in  this 
mental  calculation  when  Mr.  Norris  came 
into  the  room.  Instead  of  departing 
with  the  others,  he  had  remained  to  give 
sundry  private  charges  to  Neel,  as  to 
the  looking  closely  after  valuables.  He 
trusted  neither  the  Major  nor  Miss 
Dawkes. 

"  I  have  resolved  upon  my  course  of 
conduct,"  spoke  the  Major,  overcoming 
*his  surprise;  for  he  too  thought  Mr. 
Norris  had  departed.  "  Mrs.  Dawkes 
was,  beyond  all  doubt,  insane  when  she 
made  the  will  ;  that  is,  so  mentally 
weakened  as  not  to  be  of  lucid  capacity. 
On  those  grounds,  I  shall  dispute  it." 


Mr.  Norris  sent  Miss  Dawkes  from  the 
room,  saying  that  he  must  speak  a  word 
to  her  brother  in  private.  He  made  the 
Major  sit  down,  and  drew  a  chair  for 
himself  in  front  of  him. 

"Look  here,  Major  Dawkes,"  he  whis- 
pered in  a  cautious  tone  ;  "  your  best  and 
only  policy  will  be  to  give  up  quietly.  I 
say  this  for  your  own  sake.  Lying  down 
deep  in  a  chest  of  mine  is  another  paper 
of  your  wife's,  not  a  will.  She  wrote  it 
lest  some  such  contingency  as  what  you 
speak  of  should  arise.  1  have  not  read 
it ;  it  is  signed  and  sealed  ;  and  my  word 
is  passed  to  your  dead  wife  that  that  pa- 
per shall  never  see  the  light  of  day,  and 
that  human  e\re  shall  never  rest  on  its 
contents,  unless  you  force  it.  It  con- 
tains a  full  and  explicit  statement  of  the 
causes  and  reasons  for  her  disinheriting 
you.  I  guess  what  they  are;  in  fact,  I 
gathered  them  from  her,  perhaps  unin- 
tentionally on  her  part,  when  she  was 
giving  me  the  directions  for  her  will.  I 
fancy  Mr.  Kage  could  say  something, 
and  the  nurse-girl  Judith.  This  is  pri- 
vate information  to  you.  Take  my  ad- 
vice :  we  lawyers  have  to  give  such  some- 
times, you  know  :  and  I  shall  never  speak 
of  it  to  living  soul.  That  paper,  in  your 
own  solemn  interests,  must  not  be  dis- 
lodged from  its  resting-place.  You,  per- 
haps, know  what  the  consequences  would 
be  :  it  would  not  be  a  question  of  the  loss 
of  property  then,  Major,  but  of  some- 
thing more.  If  I  speak  plainly,  it  is  for 
your  own  sake.  Make  no  fight;  don't 
stir  up  muddy  waters." 

The  Major's  eyes  were  bent  on  the 
ground,  and  his  face  wore  again  its  livid 
tinge.  But  Mr.  ISTonis,  accustomed  to 
read  countenances,  saw  that  all  ideas  of 
opposition  was  perforce  abandoned.  0, 
they  were  bitter — the  pills  that  unhappy 
sinner  had  to  swallow! 

"  And    you    will   give   up    possession, 

Major.      Miss  Canterbury  said  at   your 

convenience  ;  I  say  do  it  .soon.     It  will 

be   more  agreeable  for  you,  1  feel  sure, 

to  be   away   from   here.      What  I  looked 

in  to  say   was,  that   I   considered   it   my 

duty  to  place  Neel  in  charge,  as  it  were, 

of  the  family  valuables  and  that.      This 

is  a  very  exceptional  case,  you  see.  M;ijor 

I  Dawkes  ;   so  I  hope  you  will   pardon  ex- 

|  ceptional  measures.     And  look  here  :   I 

I  have  no  ill-will   to  you,   Heaven   knows. 

Man  £ets  led  into  all  sorts  of  queer  cor- 

j  ners  thoughtlessly  ;  and  if  I  can  do  you, 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL. 


265 


a  good  turn,  I  will.  Miss  Canterbury  is 
of  a  nobly-generous  nature,  and  I  think 
she'd  do  something  for  you,  if  she  were 
asked.     There!" 

The  lawyer  disappeared  with  the  last 
words,  waiting  for  neither  comment  nor 
answer.  Major  Dawkes  sat  on,  still  as 
a  statue,  plunging  into  a  vista  of  the  fu- 
ture— a  future  encompassed  about  with 
the  stings  of  remorse  and  bitter  disap- 
pointment. What  had  he  gained  by 
that  dark  deed  he  had  accomplished  in 
secrecy  and  silence  ?  Not  the  golden 
Utopia,  the  luxurious  freedom  he  had 
pictured  to  himself;  but  poverty,  and 
guilt,  and  shame.  His  wife  gone — her 
money  gone — the  Rock  gone — position 
gone — all  the  good  things  were  wrested 
from  him  forever!  And  Major  Dawkes 
started  up  wildly,  and  pulled  at  his  hair 
with  vengeful  hands,  as  the  thought  sud- 
denly flashed  over  him  that,  but  for  that 
woful  deed,  he  would  have  been  revelling 
in  them  yet. 

It  is  often  thus.  Satan  lures  us  on  to 
commit  evil  that  good  may  come,  and 
then  turns  on  us  with  a  mocking  laugh. 
Of  all  men  living,  perhaps,  Major 
Dawkes  was  in  that  hour  the  most  mis- 
erable. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 


CONCLUSION". 


Thomas  Kage  had  quitted  the  Rock 
in  the  Miss  Canterburys'  carriage  ;  Mrs. 
Dunn  would  go  with  the  Rector  and  his 
wife.  Scarcel}7  a  word  was  spoken  on 
the  way  home.  The  strange  event  of 
the  day  seemed  very  startling  \-et. 

"  Shall  I  come  in  ?  "  he  asked  when 
he  had  assisted  them  to  alight.  And  he 
spoke  it  with  so  much  deprecation,  that 
Olive  looked  at  him. 

"Shall  you!"  she  repeated;  "why 
should  you  not  ?  " 

"  What  has  passed  this  morning  bars 
my  right  to  do  so — at  least,  on  the  pre- 
vious footing,"  lie  continued  when  they 
had  entered.  —  "  Millicent,"  he  added, 
turning  to  her,  "  this  is  a  cruel  blow  ; 
for  it  ought,  in  justice,  to  deprive  me  of 
you.      But  it  is  only  what  I  looked  for." 

"What  now?"  cried  Olive. 

"  I  possess,  by  dint  of  scraping  and 
saving,  a  thousand  pounds   laid  by  in 


the  bank,  to  purchase  chairs  and  tables. 
Millicent,  is  now  worth,  at  least,  a  hun- 
dred thousand — how  much  more,  I  dare 
not  guess.  Can  I,  in  honor,  still  hold 
her  to  her  promise  to  become  my 
wife  ?  " 

Millicent  Canterbury  turned  red  and 
white,  and  hot  and  sick,  and  finally 
burst  into  tears.  Olive,  on  the  contrary, 
felt  inclined  to  laugh. 

"  It  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  a 
rising  barrister — looking  forward  to  the 
Woolsack,  no  doubt,  in  his  own  vain 
heart  —  say  that  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds  was  a  thing  to  reject  or  quarrel 
with.  Would  }'ou  have  liked  it  to  be  a 
million,  sir  ?  " 

"Miss  Canterbury!" 

"  Ay,  Miss  Canterbury  indeed  !  Look 
at  Leta.  I  daresay  she  has  had  her 
visions,  as  well  as  you.  The  Lord 
Chancellor  and  his  wig  rule  England, 
and  yhe  rules  the  Lord  Chancellor,  may 
have  been  one  of  her  ambitious  ideali- 
ties for  the  far-off  future.  No  slight 
temptation  to  a  young  lady,  let  me  tell 
you,  Mr.  Kage.  And  now  you  want  to 
upset  it  all  !  " 

"  It  is  the  money  which  upsets  it." 

"  Poor  child  !  "  cried  Olive,  advancing 
and  stroking  Millicent's  hair;  "you 
have  cause  for  tears.  He  sa\-s  he  will 
not  give  you  a  home  now ;  and  I  am 
sure  I  will  not  give  you  one.  I  won't 
harbor  a  rejected  and  forlorn  damsel  at 
the  Rock." 

"  You  are  making  a  joke  of  it,"  he 
said  ;  and  that  she  should  do  so  rather 
jarred  upon  his  very  serious  mood. 

"  Of  all  fastidious  men  you  are  the 
most  absurd,  sir.  I  don't  suppose  it  is 
the  first  time  the  accusation  has  been 
brought  against  you." 

"  What  would  }'ou  have  me  do,  Miss 
Canterbury?" 

"  Do  ! "  she  echoed,  in  a  changed  tone. 
"  Ask  Millicent.  Money  separate  you  ! 
What  next  ?  I  never  was  ashamed  of 
you  until  now,  Thomas  Kage." 

She  left  the  room  ;  and  the  next  min- 
ute Millicent  was  sobbing  on  his  breast. 
Separate,  indeed  ! 

With  a  commotion  of  rustling  skirts, 
and  a  fierce  bang,  in  came  Mrs.  Dunn, 
who  had  chosen  to  alight  at  Thornhedge 
Villa  instead  of  going  on  to  the  Rectory. 
Millicent  was  then  seated,  her  face  bent 
over  a  book  (held  upside  down)  ;  Thorn- 


266 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL, 


as  Kage  was  looking  demurely  from  the 
window. 

"  Olive  !  Where's  Olive  ?  I  waut 
Olive. — Why,  Leta,  you  look  as  though 
you  had  been  crying  !  " 

"  I !  "  stammered  poor  Leta. 

"  I'm  sure  it's  nothing  to  cry  about," 
reprimanded  Mrs.  Dunn,  who  had  not 
parted  with  her  propensity  to  set  the 
world  to  rights.  "  Poor  Caroline  Dawkes 
had  been  as  good  as  dead  so  long,  that 
one  can't  feel  it  much  at  last.  Don't  be 
stupid,  child. — 0,  here  you  are,  Olive  !" 

Olive  would  have  liked  them  to  have  a 
few  minutes'  conversation  to  themselves, 
that  they  might  get  reconciled  to  the 
new  state  of  things  ;  and  she  thought 
Mrs.  Dunn  was  a  great  marplot.  But 
there  was  no  help  for  it.  Miss  Canter- 
bury sat  down  by  Mr.  Kage,  and  began 
talking. 

"  Mrs.  Dawkes's  will,  in  a  different 
way,  is  as  strange  a  one  as  my  father's," 
she  observed  to  hiin.  "  Can  you  account 
for  it  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  account  for  it,"  was 
the  evasive  reply  of  Thomas  Kage. 

"  There's  one  part  I  can't  account  for, 
and  that  is  why  she  should  have  cut  off 
her  husband  absolutely,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Dunn,  tilting  her  black  bonnet  off  the 
back  of  her  head.     "  Who  can  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply.  She  had  not  ad- 
dressed the  question  to  any  one  in  par- 
ticular, so  an  answer  was  saved.  Miss 
Canterbury  was  occupied  with  her  jet 
chain  ;  Thomas  Kage  had  turned  to  the 
window  again. 

"  One  thing  strikes  me  as  being  re- 
markably curious,"  pursued  Lydia  Dunn. 
"  That  Mrs.  Garston  at  the  last  altered 
her  will,  so  that  the  pittance  she  left  the 
Major  should  be  paid  to  him  weekly.  It 
was  just  as  though  she  foresaw  what  has 
come  to  pass,  and  would  secure  him  from 
absolute  starvation." 

"  Yes,  that  was  curious,"  warmly  as- 
sented Thomas  Kage,  a  strange  light  in 
his  luminous  eyes. 

"  It  strikes  me  that  you  know  more 
than  you  will  tell  us,  Mr.  Kage,"  she 
rejoined  suddenly. 

"  That  I  know  more  ?     What  of?  " 

"  Why,  of  the  reason  for  Mrs. 
Dawkes's  cutting  him  off.  He  was  her 
husband  :  nobody  can  deny  that.  I  see 
you  won't  admit  anything,  Mr.  Kage. 
You    law-people    are    closer    than    wax. 


But  I  have  my  own  thoughts  about  it 
now  and  again.     Odd  ones,  too." 

"  I  cannot  help  feeling  sorry  for  Ma- 
jor Dawkes,"  observed  Olive.  "  His 
present  position  must  be  a  pitiable  one." 
As  to  its  cause — I  mean  his  wife's  mo- 
tive— I  do  not  think  we  are  called  upon 
to  speculate  upon  it,  Lydia." 

"  He'll  quit  the  army — that's  a  matter 
of  course,"  went  on  Lydia.  "  He  and 
Keziah  will  club  their  means  together, 
and  go  over  the  water  and  live.  You'll 
see.  He  has  his  four  pounds  a  week  : 
she  has  about  the  same.  They  won't 
quite  starve." 

"  No,  I  must  take  care  of  that,"  mur- 
mured Miss  Canterbury.  "I  think,  with 
Mr.  Carlton,  that  it  is  very  strange  Car- 
oline left  nothing  to  you,"  she  added  to 
Thomas  Kage.  "  I  have  a  suspicion 
that  you  prevented  it  yourself." 

"  I  told  her  I  would  not  accept  it  if 
she  did." 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  The  money,  in  point  of  right,  was 
not  Caroline's  to  leave  ;  and  what  claim 
had  I  on  Mr.  Canterbury's  property?  " 

"  A  small  slice  of  it  would  not  have 
been  missed." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  he  said  ;  but  I  had  no 
claim  to  a  slice,  small  or  large.  No;  I 
would  not  have  accepted  a  shilling." 

"  Well,  you  are  fastidious,"  cried 
Olive,  looking  at  him  :  chivalrously  hon- 
orable." 

"  I  think  I  am  only  just,  Miss  Canter- 
bury." 

"  But  0,  what  a  strange  thing  it  is, 
that  our  own  monej'  should  have  come 
bark  to  us  !  "  she  exclaimed  with  enthu- 
siasm. "  I  cannot  }ret  realise  it :  when 
I  wake  up  to-morrow  morning,  I  shall 
not  believe  it's  true.  It  did  not  bring 
altogether  luck  or  happiness  to  those  to 
whom  it  was  left  when  papa  disinherited 
his  own  people." 

"  Indeed  it  did  not,  warmly  replied 
Thomas  Kage  :  and  he  knew  it,  far  bet- 
ter than  she  did.  "  Be  assured  of  one 
tiling,  Miss  Canterbury  :  that  an  unjust 
will  never  prospers  the  inheritors.  All 
my  experience  in  life  has  proved  it  to 
me." 

And  do  you  be  assured  of  it  also,  my 
readers,  for  it  is  a  stern  truth.  Look  out 
for  yourselves  in  life,  and  mark  these 
cases.  Years  may  go  by,  all  apparently 
flourishing,   justice    may  seem  to  have 


GEORGE    CANTERBURY'S    WILL 


267 


flagging  wings ;  but  when  the  final  re- 
sult shall  come — as  it  surely  will — you 
will  see  what  it  brings.  Over  and  over 
again  has  the  bitter  truth  been  spoken — 
"  It  brought  no  blessing  with  it." 

Summer  sunshine  lay  around  the 
Rock  ;  summer  brightness  glistened  on 
it.  The  old  family  were  within  its  walls 
again,  ami  wrongs  had  been  righted. 
There  had  beeu  no  trouble ;  Major 
Dawkes  had  given  up  early  possession, 
betaking  himself  off  one  morniug  quiet- 
ly with  Keziah  at  his  heels.  He  was 
no  longer  Major  now,  except  by  cour- 
tesy. As  Mrs.  Dunn  predicted,  he  had 
made  haste  to  sell  out  of  the  army,  nev- 
er again  to  reenter  it ;  and  had  taken 
up  his  residence  across  the  Channel  with 
his  sister,  on  a  very  fair  and  sufficient 
income.  Were  men  generalby  rewarded 
here  in  accordance  with  their  deserts, 
Major  Dawkes  might  perhaps  have  con- 
fessed to  himself  that,  after  all,  he  was 
more  lucky  than  he  deserved  to  be. 

Not  quite  all  the  family  back  at  the 
Bock  who  had  been  turned  out  of  it ; 
for  Miss  Canterbury  alone  was  left  of 
them.  Mrs.  Rufort  was  at  the  Rectory  ; 
Millicent  was  already  on  the  verge  of 
entering  a  new  home. 

For  this  was  the  wedding-day  —  as 
might  be  seen  by  the  gay  carriages  pass- 
ing to  and  fro,  and  the  gala  dresses 
within  them.  In  vain  Millicent  had 
pleaded  for  a  quiet  wedding  ;  in  vain 
Thomas  Kage  had  threatened  to  run 
away  with  Leta  beforehand  if  thej7  were 
to  be  subjected  to  display  ;  Miss  Canter- 
bury willed  it  otherwise.  They  had  had 
enough  of  quiet  wedding,  she  said,  and 
decided  for  a  grand  one.  A  gracious 
mistress,  she,  reigning  in  her  own  birth- 
place, the  Rock;  but  rather  an  autocrat 
still  in  the  matter  of  taking  her  own 
way.  And  grand  it  was,  especially  con- 
sidering that  two  lords  were  at  it. 

Lord  Rufort  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
give  the  bride  away.  Percival,  Earl  of 
Hartledon    invited    himself,    and    came 


down  with  Mr.  Kage  —  the  two  close 
and  confidential  friends  of  man}-  years. 
Richard  Dunn' and  his  wife  Sarah  came 
to  it ;  Lydia  Dunn  was  of  course  there, 
busier  and  finer  than  anj'body.  Lord 
Rufort's  stiffness  had  somewhat  relaxed 
of  late  ;  for  the  fortune  his  daughter-in- 
law  had  come  into  afforded  him.  the  most 
intense  gratification. 

But  the  ceremony  was  over,  and  the 
breakfast  was  over,  and  the  bridal-car- 
riage was  at  length  off  amidst  its  cloud 
of  old  shoes.  The  out-door  groups  were 
cheering,  the  church-bells  were  ringing. 

"  Thank  goodness,  it's  at  an  end/' 
laughed  Thomas  Kage,  as  he  leaned 
back  in  the  carriage,  leaving  the  noise 
and  excitement  behind.  "  Leta,  I  vow 
I'll  never  get  married  again." 

"  I  think  one  time  quite  enough," 
she  answered,  with  a  shy  laugh,  and  a 
blush. 

"  Farewell  to  Chilling,"  he  murmured, 
three  parts  to  himself;  "  farewell  to  all 
the  old  reminiscences,  sad  ones  most  of 
them)  that  the  place  has  wrought  into 
its  history.  Henceforth  we  begin  a  new 
life,  Leta.     I  trust  a  happy  oue." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  she  breathed. 

"  Ay,  yes  ;  with  Heaven's  blessing." 

A  very  short  bridal  tour  was  to  be 
theirs,  for  Thomas  Kage  had  chosen  to 
get  married  in  the  busy  season  when  the 
law-courts  were  sitting,  instead  of  wait- 
ing sensibly  for  the  autumn.  And  then 
the  house  that  had  been  Mrs.  Garston's 
would  receive  them,  henceforth  to  be 
their  home. 

The  sunshine  lay,  wdiite  and  calm,  on 
the  road ;  the  birds  sang,  the  swallows 
dipping  as  they  flew ;  the  yellow  corn 
was  ripening  ;  the  summer  flowers  threw 
up  their  sweet  perfume ;  the  trees 
waved  gently  against  the  blue  sky  ;  the 
mountains  basked  in  their  hues  of  light 
and  shade  ;  on  all  things  there  seemed 
to  rest  a  holy  gladness,  speaking  to  the 
heart  of  peace. 

And  the  horses,  spanking  along, 
carried  the  chariot  away  in  the  distance. 


THE     END. 


I        Ml 


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MAJOR  JONES'S  COURTSHIP.  Detailed  with  other 
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THE  LOUISIANA  SWAMP  DOCTOR.  Odd  Leaves 
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MYSTERIES  OF  THE  BACKWOODS;  and  Fifteen 
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SIMON  SUGG'S  ADVENTURES.  The  Adventures 
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STREAKS  OF  SQUATTER  LIFE,  and  Far  West 
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MAJOR  JONES'S  CHRONICLES  OF  PINEVTLLE  ; 
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POLLY  PEABLOSSOM'S  WEDDING,  and  Thirty- 
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THE  DRAMA  IN  POKERVILLE.  Containing  the 
"  Bench  and  Bar  of  Jurytown,"  "  A  Night  in  a  Swamp," 
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PICKINGS  FROM  THE  PORTFOLIO  OF  THE  RE- 
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STRAY  SUBJECTS  ARRESTED  AND  BOUND 
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PETER  PLODDY'S  DREAM;  and  other  oddities. 
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A  QUARTER  RACE  IN  KENTUCKY,  and  thirty-two 
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CHARCOAL  SKETCHES.  Comprising  sketches  of 
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THE  YANKEE  AMONGST  THE  MERMAIDS,  and 
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THE  ADVENTURES  OF  FUDGE  FUMBLE;  or, 
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THE  NEW  ORLEANS  SKETCH  BOOK.  Containing 
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PETER  FABER'S  MISFORTUNES,  OR  "BOOTS;" 
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AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP  BA(:.  By  Mrs  Caroline  Lee 
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THE  QUORNDON  HOUNDS;  or,  A  Virginian  at  Mel- 
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MY  SHOOTING  BOX.  By  Frank  Forester,  author  of 
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THE  DEER  STALKERS.  A  Sporting  Tale  of  the 
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"  The  Quorndoii  Houi  ds,"  etc.  With  original  illustra- 
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THE  WARWICK  WOODLANDS;  or,  Things  as  they 
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ADVENTURES  OF  CAPTAIN  FARRAGO.  By 
Hon  H.  H.  Brackenridge,  for  sixteen  yeurs  one  of  the 
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MAJOR  O'REGANS  ADVENTURES.  By  Hon.  H.  H. 
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SOL.  SMITH'S  THEATRICAL  APPRENTICESHIP. 
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SOL.  SMITH'S  THEATRICAL  JOURNEY-WORK. 
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WIDOW  RUGBY'S  HUSBAND,  a  Night  at  the  Ugly 
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YANKEE  YARNS  AND  YANKEE  LETTERS.  By 
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PERCTVAL  MAYBERRY.  HIS  LIFE  AND  AD- 
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FOLLOWING  THE  DRUM.  By  Mrs.  Brigadier- Gen- 
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MRS.    SOUTH  WORTH'S  WORKS. 
Tlie    Maiden  Widow.     Oue  vol.,  paper  cover. 

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The  Family  Doom,      One  volume,  paper  cover. 

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The  Changed  Brides.     One  vol.,  paper  cover. 

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Fair  Play.    One  volume,  paper  cover.    PriceS1.50; 

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Fallen  Pride.     Oue   volume,  paper  cover.     Price 

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The  Prince  of  Darkness.     One  vol.,  paper  co- 
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The   Widow's   Son.     One  volume,  pap»r  cover. 

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The  Bride  of  Llewellyn.     Oue  volume,  paper 

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The  Fortune   Seeker.     One  vol  ,  paper  cover. 

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Allworth    Abbey.      Oue   volume,  paper    cover. 

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The  Bridal  Eve.   Complete  in  one  volume,  paper 

cover.     Price  $1.50  ;  or  iu  oue  volume,  cloth,  $1.75. 
The  Fatal  Marriage.   Complete  in  one  volume, 

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Love's  Lal^or   Won.     doe  volume,  paper  cover, 

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The  Gipsy's  Prophecy.    Complete  in  oue  vol., 

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Vivia.     The  Secret  of  Power.     One  vol.,  pa- 
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India-     The   Pearl  of    Pearl  River.      Oue 

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The   Mot  her-in  -Law.     One-volume,  paper  co- 
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The  Discarded  Daughter.  One  vol  nme,  paper 

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Tin-     Two   Sisters.      One  volume,    paper   cover. 

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Tiie  Three  Beauties.    Due  volume,  paper  cover. 

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The     Haunted    Homestead.     One  vol  ,  paper 

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Tine  Wife's  Victory.     One  volume,  paper  cover. 

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The    Lost    Heiress.     One  volume,   paper  cover. 

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Reli'lixition:    A  Tale  of  Passion.    One  vol., 

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Tiie   Deserted  Wife.     One  volume,  paper  cover. 

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Tiie  Lady  of  the  Isle.  One  volume,  pap^r  cover. 

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Tiie   Missing   Bride.     One  volume,  paper  cover. 

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Tiie   Curse  of  Clifton.     One  volume,  paper  co- 
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DOKSTICKS'     BOOKS. 
Doesticks'    Letters 
Plu-ri-bus-tah. 

The     Elephant     Club. 

Witches  of  New  York. 
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MRS.  ASS  S.  STEPHENS'  WORKS. 
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Wives  and  Widows. — One  volume,   paper  co- 
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The  Curse  of  Gold. — Complete  in  one  vol.,  paper 

cover.     Price  $1.50  ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.75. 
Mabel's    Mistake.      One    volume,    paper    cover. 

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Doubly  False.     One  volume,  paper  cover.     Price 

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The    Soldier's   Orphans.    Oue  volume,   pa^er 

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The    Gold    Brick.     Oue   volume,  paper    coi  er. 

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Silent    Struggles.      One    volume,    paper  corer. 

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The    Wife's    Secret.     One  volume,  paper  cofer. 

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The  Rejected  Wife.     Oue  volume,  paper  cover. 

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Fashion  atul  Famine.    One  volume,  papei  co- 
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The      Heiress.      Oue     volume,    paper    cover. 

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Tiie  Old  Homestead.     Oue  volume,  paper  cover. 

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Mary      D  e  r  w  e  n  t.    One  volume,  paper  cover. 

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CAROLINE     LEE    HERTZ'S     WORKS. 

Planter's  Northern  Bride.  Oue  vol..  paper 
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Linda.  The  Young  Pilot  of  tiie  Utile 
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Robert  Grahani.  The  .Sequel  to,  and  Continua- 
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The  Lost,  Daughter.  One  vol.,  paper  cover. 
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Court  ship  and  Marriage.  One  vol.,  paper  co- 
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Rena;  or.  The  Snow  Bird.  Oue  vol.,  paper 
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Marcus  Wnrland.  One  volume,  paper  cover. 
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Love  after  Marriage.  One  vol.,  paper  cover. 
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Eoli;»e;  or,  Magnolia  Vale.  Oue  vol.,  pa- 
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Tiie  Banished  Son.  Oue  volume,  paper  cover. 
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Helen  anil  Arthur.  One  volume,  paper  Cover. 
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Ernest  Lin  wood.  One  volume,  paper  cover. 
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Forsaken  Daughter.  One  volume,  paper  co- 
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GREEN'S   WORKS   OR    GAMBLING. 

Gambling  Exposed.  By  J.  H.  Green,  the  lie- 
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The  Secret  Band  of  Brothers.  Oue  vol  .  pa- 
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The  Gambler's  Life.  One  vol.,  paper  cover. 
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T)i£  following  books  are  issued  in  duodecimo  form,  in 
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Why  Did  He  Marry  Her.     By  Miss  Dupuy. 
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"  Carlyon's  Tear." 
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Flirtations  in  Fashionable  Life. 
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A  Woman's  Thoughts  about  Women. 
The  Jealous   Husband.    By  Auuette  Maillard. 
Belle    of    Washington.       By     Mrs.    Lasselle. 
The  Woman  in  Black.     A  Charming  Work. 
High  Life  in  Washington.     By  Mrs.  Lasselle. 
Harem  Lite  in  Egypt  and  Constantinople. 
The  Rival  Belles;  or,  Life  in  Washington. 
Rose    Douglas.     Companion  to  "  Self-Sacrifice." 
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The    Matchmaker.     By  Beatrice  Reynolds. 
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Woodhurn  Grange.     By  William  Hewitt. 
The  Lost  Beauty.     By  Lady  of  Spanish  Court. 
Saratoga.     An  Indian  tale  of  Frontier  Life  in  17S7. 
Married  at  Last.     By  Annie  Thomas. 
False  Pride  ;  or,  Two  Ways  to  Matrimony. 
Out  of  the  Depths.     A  Story  of  a  Woman's  Life. 
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Love  and  Duty.     By  Mrs.  Hubbach. 
The  Lost  Love.     By  author  "John  Drayton." 
The  Bohemians  of  London.  By  E.  M.  Whitty. 
Courtship  and  Matrimony.    By  R.  Morris. 
The  Lovers'  Trials.     By  Mrs.  Dennison. 
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The  Man  of  the  World.     By  William  North. 
The  Refugee.      By  Hermann  Melville. 
Indiana.     A  Love  Story.     By  George  Sand. 
Jealousy.     By  George  Sand,  author  of  "Consnelo." 
The  Little  Beauty.  A  Love  Story.  By  Mrs.  Grey. 
The  Adopted  Heir.     By  Miss  Pardoe. 
Count  of  Monte  Cristo.    By  Alexander  Dumas. 
Camille  ;  or,  Fate  of  a  Coquette.     By  Alex.  Dumas. 
Love    and   Liberty.     By  Alexander  Dumas. 
Six    Nights   with    the   Washingtonians. 
The  Old  Stone  Mansion.     By  C.  J.   Peterson. 
Kate   Aylesford.     By  Charles  J.  Peterson. 
Lorrimer  Littlegood's  Adventures. 
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Mildred   Arkell.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 
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Lord  Montague's  Page.     By  G.  P.  R.  James. 
The  Cavalier.       By   G.    P.    R.  James. 
Cousin  Harry.    By  author  of  "  Gambler's  Wife." 
The  Conscript.  A  Tale  of  War.  By  Alex.  Dumas. 
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T.  A.  TROLLOPE'S   WORKS. 

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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


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8  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 

T.  B.  PETERSON  and  BROTHERS'  COMPLETE  ANO   ILLUSTRATED 

EDITIONS     OF 

CHARLES     DICKENS'    WORKS. 


PEOPLE'S  DUODECIMO  EDITION. 

Reduced  in  Price  from  $2.50  fo$1.50  a  vohime. 
This  edition  is  printed  on  fine  paper,  from  large, 
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read,  containing  One  Hundred  and  Eighty  Ilustra- 
tinnx  on  tinted  paper,  and  each  book  is  complete  in  one 
large  duodecimo  volume. 

Our  mutual  Friend, Cloth,  $1.50 

Pickwick.  Papers, Cloth,  1.50 

Nicholas    Nickleby, Cloth,  1.50 

Great  Expectations, Cloth,  1.50 

David  Copperfield, Cloth,  1.50 

Oliver  Twist, Cloth,  l.fiO 

Bleak  House, Cloth,  1.50 

A.   Tale    of  Two  Cities, Cloth,  1.50 

Dickens'  New  Stories, Cloth,  .160 

Little  Dorrit, Cloth,  1.50 

Dombey  and  Son, Cloth,  1.50 

Christmas    Stories, Cloth,  1.50 

Sketches  by  "  Boz," Cloth,  1.50 

Barnaby  Budge, Cloth,  1.50 

Martin   Chuzzlewit, Cloth,  1.50 

Old  Curiosity  Shop, Cloth,  1.50 

American    Notes ;   and   The    Un- 
commercial Traveller, Cloth,  1.50 

The  Holly-Tree  Inn  ;  and  other 

Stories, Cloth,  1.50 

Hunted    Down;    and    other    Re- 
printed Pieces, Cloth,  1.50 

Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  cloth,  in  19  volumes $28.00 

"  "         Full  sheep.  Library  style 38.00 

"  "         Half  calf,  sprinkled  edges 47.00 

"  "         Half  calf,  marbled  edges 53.00 

"  "        Half  calf,  autique 57.00 

"  "        Half  calf,  full  gilt  hacks,  etc 57.00 

CHEAP  PAPER  COVER  EDITION. 

Pickwick  Papers, 35 

Nicholas  Nickleby, 35 

Dombev  and  Son, 35 

David  Copperfield, 25 

Martin  Chuzzlewit, 35 

Barnaby  Rudge, 2.5 

Old  Curiosity  Shop, 25 

Oliver  Twist 25 

American  Notes, 25 

Great  Expectations, 25 

Hard  Times, 25 

Tale  of  Two  Cities, 25 

Somebody's  Luggage,.. ..25 
Message  from  the  Sea,. ...25 


Our  Mutual  Friend, 35 

Bleak  House, 35 

Little  Durrit 35 

Sketches  by  "-Boz," 25 

Christmas  Stories 25 

The  Haunted  House 25 

Uncommercial  Traveler,. 25 
Wreck  of  Golden  Mary,. .25 
Tom  Tiddler's  Ground, ..25 

A  House  to  Let,....  25 

Perils  English  Piisoners,2o 
Life  of  Joseph  Grimaldi,  50 

Pic-Nic  Papers 50 

No  Thoroughfare, 10 

Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings  and  Mrs.  Lirriper's  Legacy, ..25 
Mugby  Junction  and  Dr.  Marigold's  Prescriptions,.. ..25 

Hunted  Down  ;  and  other  Reprinted  Pieces, 25 

The  Holly-Tree  Inn  ;  and  other  Stories,  25 

NEW   NATIONAL    EDITION. 

This  is  the  cheapest  complete  bound  edition  of  the 
works  of  Charles  Dickens,  "Boz,"  published  in  the 
world,  all  his  writings  being  contained  in  seven  large 
octavo  volumes,  with  a  portrait  of  Charles  Dickens,  and 
other  illustrations,  the  whole  making  nearly  six  thou- 
sand very  large  double  columned  pages,  in  large,  clear 
iype,  handsomely  printed  on  fine  white  paper,  and 
bouud  in  the  strongest  and  most  substantial  manner. 
Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  Cloth,  in  seven  volumes, ..$20. 00 

"  "        Full  sheep,  Library  style 25.00 

"  "        Half  Calf,  antique 30.00 

"  "        Half  Calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc....  30.00 


ILLUSTRATED  OCTAVO   EDITION. 

Reduced  in  Price  from  $2.50  to  $1.75  a  volume. 
Tliis  edition  is  printed  from  large  type,  double  <  olumn 
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whole  containing  near  Six  Hundred  Illustrations,  printed 
on  tinted  paper,  from  designs  by  Oruikshank,  Phiz, 
Browne,  Maclise,  McLenan,  and  other  eminent  artists. 

Our  Mutual  Friend, Cloth,  $1.75 

Pickwick   Papers, Cloth,  1.75 

Nicholas  Nickleby, Cloth,  1.75 

Great  Expectations, Cloth,  1.75 

Lamplighter's  Story, Cloth,  1.75 

Oliver  Twist, Cloth,  1.75 

Bleak   House, Cloth,  1.75 

Little  Dorrit, Cloth,  1.75 

Dombey  and  Son, Cloth,  1.75 

Sketches  by  "Boz," Cloth,  1.75 

David   Copperfield, Cloth,  1.75 

Barnaby  Rudge, Cloth,  1.75 

Martin  Chuzzlewit, Cloth,  1.75 

Old  Curiosity  Shop, Cloth,  1.75 

Christmas    Stories, Cloth,  1.75 

Dickens'  New  Stories, Cloth,  1.75 

A    Tale  of  Two  Cities, Cloth,  1.75 

American   Notes  and   Pic-Nic  Papers. .1.7.5 

Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  cloth,  in  IS  volumes $31.50 

"  "  Full  sheep,  Library  siyle 40.00 

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"  "  Half  calf,  antique 60.00 

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ILLUSTRATED  DUODECIMO   EDITION. 

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whole  containing  near  Sir  Hundred  full  page  Illustrations, 
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Tfte  fnllmi'ing  are  each  complete  in  two  volumes. 

Our  Mutual  Friend Cloth,  $3.00 

Pick-wick  Papers, Cloth,  3.00 

Tale  of  Two  Cities, Cloth,  3.00 

Nicholas  Nickleby, Cloth,  3.00 

David  Copperfield, Cloth,  3.00 

Oliver   Twist, Cloth,  3.00 

Christmas  Stories, Cloth,  3.00 

Bleak  House, Cloth,  3.00 

Sketches  by  "Boz," Cloth,  3.00 

Barnaby  Rudge,     Cloth,  3.00 

Martin   Chuzzlewit, Cloth,  3.00 

Old  Curiosity  Shop, Cloth,  3.00 

Little  Dorrit, Cloth,  3.00 

Dombey  and   Son, Cloth,  3.00 

1  he  following  are  each  complete  in  one  volume. 

Great  Expectations,. Cloth.  1.50 

Dickens'  New  Stories, Cloth,  1.50 

American   Notes  ;    and    The  Un- 
commercial   Traveller, Cloth,  1.50 

The  Holly-Tree  Inn  ;   and  other 

Stories, Cloth,  1.50 

Hunted    Down;     and   other   Re- 
printed  Pieces, Cloth,  1.50 

Price  of  a  set,  in  black  cloth,  in  33  vols,  gilt  backs  $49.00 

"  '•         Full  sheep,  Library  st-yle 66.00 

"  "         Half  calf,  antique! 99.00 

"  "         Half  calf,  full  gilt  back 99.00 


|gg°  Either  Edition  of  Charles  Dickens'  Works  will  be  sent  Free  of  freight  or  postage,  on  Re- 
ceipt of  the  retail  price,  by  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


T.  B.  PETERSOIT  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


MILITARY  NOVELS. 
By  Lever,   Dumas,  and  other    Authors. 

With  Illuminated  Military  Covers,  in  Colors,  making 
them  the  most  attractive  and  saleable  books  ever 
printed.  Published  and  for  sale  at  retail,  by  the 
single  copy,  or  at  wholesale,  by  the  dozen,  hundred, 
or  thousand,  at  very  low  rates. 

Their  Names  are  as  Follows  : 

Charles   O'Malley  75 

Jack  Hinton,  the  Guardsman 75 

The   Knight   of  Gwynne 75 

Harry  Lorreqner 75 

Tom  Burke  of  Ours 75 

Arthur  O'Leary  75 

Con  Cregan's    Adventures 75 

Kate    O  Donogliuc  75 

Horace  Templeton 75 

Davenport   Dunn 75 

Valentine   Vox  75 

Twin  Lieutenants 75 

Stories  of  Waterloo 75 

The   soldier's   Wife 75 

Tom  Bowling's  Adventures 75 

Guerilla    Chief 75 

The   Three  Guardsmen 75 

Jack  Adams's  Adventures, 75 

Twenty  Years  After 75 

Bragelonne,  the  Son  of  Athos 75 

Forty-five  Guardsmen 75 

Life  of  Robert  Bruce 75 

The    Gipsy  Chief  75 

Illassacre   of  Glencoe 75 

Life  of  Guy  Fawkes 75 

Child  of  Waterloo 75 

Adventures  of  Ben  Brace 75 

Life  of  Jack  Ariel  7^ 

Following  the  Drum 50 

Wallace,  the  Hero  of  Scotland 1.00 

The  Conscript,  a  Tale  of  War 1.50 

Quaker   Soldier,   by  Col.   J.  Richter  Jones.  1.50 

REYNOLDS'    GREAT  "WORKS. 

Mysteries  of  the  Court  of  London.  Com- 
plete in  one  large  volume,  bound  in  cloth,  for  $1.75; 
or  in  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

Rose  Foster;  or,  "The  Second  Series  of  the  Mys- 
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or  in  paper  cover,  price  $1.50. 

Caroline  of  Brunswick  ;  or,  the  "Third  Series 
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in  one  large  vol.,  bound  in  cloth,  for  $1.75;  or  in 
paper  cover,  for  $1 .00. 

Venetia  Trelawney ;  being  the  "Fourth  Series, 
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Loudon."  Complete  in  one  volume,  in  cloth,  for 
$1.71;  or  in  paper  cover,  price  $1.00. 

l»ord  Saxondale;  or,  The  Court  of  Queen  Vic- 
toria. Complete  in  one  large  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.75  ; 
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Count  Christoval.  The  "  Sequel  to  Lord  Saxon- 
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The  Necromancer.  A  Romance  of  the  Times 
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Rosa  Lambert ;  or,  The  Memoirs  of  an  Unfortu- 
nate Woman.  One  vol..  bound  in  cloth,  for  $1.75; 
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Mary  Price ;  or,  The  Adventures  of  a  Servant- 
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Eustace  Quentin.  A  "Sequel  to  Mary  Price." 
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Joseph  Wilmot;  or.  The  Memoirs  of  a  Man- 
Servant.     In  cloth  for  $1.75,  or  in  paper,  $1.00. 


REYNOLDS'   GREAT   WORKS. 

The  Banker's  Daughter.  A  Sequel  to '  Jo- 
seph Wilmot."  Complete  m  one  vol.,  cloth,  lor  $1.75  . 
or  in  paper  cover,  price  $1.00. 

Kenneth.  A  Romance  of  the  Highlands.  In  one 
volume,  cloth,  for$l.75  ;  or  in  paper,  $1.00. 

The  Rye-House  Plot;  or,  Ruth,  the  Conspira- 
tor's Daughter.  One  vol.,  bound  in  cloth,  for  $1  75  . 
or  in  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar. 

The  Opera  Dancer;  or,  The  Mysteries  of 
Loudon  Life.     Price  75  cents. 

Wallace:  the  Hero  of  Scotland.  Illus- 
trated with  Thirty-eight  plates.     Price  One  Dollar. 

The  Child  of  Waterloo;  or,  Ths  Horrors  oi  th« 
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Robert  Bruce  :   the  Hero  King  of  Scot-  w 
land,  with  his  Portrait.     One  vol      Price  75  cents. 

Isabella  Vincent;  or.  The  Two  Orphans. 
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Vivian  Bertram;  or,  A  Wife's  Honor  A  Sequel 
to  "  Isabella  Vincent."     One  vol.     Price  75  cents. 

The  Countess  of  Lascelles.  The  Continuation 
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Duke  of  Marchmont.  Being  the  Conclusion  of 
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Gipsy  Chief.  Beautifully  Illustrated  Complete 
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Pickwick  Abroad.  A  Companion  to  the  "Pick- 
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Mary  Stuart,  Queen  of  Scots.  Complete  ia 
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May  Middleton;  or,  The  History  of  a  Fortune 
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Ciprina;    or,  The  Secrets    of   a   Picture 

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The   Ruined    Gamester.     With   Illustrations 
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Tbe  Loves  of  the  Harem.     Price  75  ceuts. 
The  Discarded  Queen.   One  volume.    75  cents 
Ellen  Percy  ;  or.  Memoirs  of  an  Actress.    75  ceuts 
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Agnes  Evelyn;  or,  Beautv  and  Pleasure.    75  cts- 
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Life   in  Paris.     Handsomely  Illustrated.     50  cts 
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Clifford  and  the  Actress.    Price  50  cents. 
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J.  A.  MAITLAND'S   GREAT  WORKS. 

The  Old  Patroon.  One  volume,  paper  cover 
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The    Three  Cousins.     By  J   A.  Mailland     One 

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The   Watchman.    Complete  in   one   large  vol.. 

paper  cover.    Price  $1.50;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.75 
The  Wanderer.    Complete  in  one  volume,  paper 

cover.     Price  $1.50;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.75. 
The  Diary  of  an  Old  Doctor.    One  vol..  paper 

cover.      Price  $1  50  ,  or  bound  in  cloth,  for  $]  75. 
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CHARLES  J.  PETERSON'S  WORKS. 

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13  T.E.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


HUMOROUS  ILLUSTRATED  WORKS. 
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Major  Jones'  Scenes  In  Georgia.  Full  of 
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Simon  Suggs'  Adventures  and  Travels. 
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The  Swamp  Doctor's  Adventures  in  the 
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Col.  Thorpe's  Scenes  in  Arkansaw: 
Wah  Sixteen  illustrations  from  Designs  by  Darley. 
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The  Big  Bear's  Adventures  and  Trav- 
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High  Life  in  New  York.  By  Jonathan  Slick. 
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Yankee  Stories.  By  Judge  Haliburton.  One  vol.. 
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Piney  Woods  Tavern;  or,  Sam  Slick  in 
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Sain  Slick,  the  Clockmaker.  By  Judge 
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Harry  Coverdale's  Courtship  and  Mar- 
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Humors  of  Falconbridge.  One  vol.,  paper 
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Modern  Chivalry.  By  H.  H.  Brackeuridge. 
Two  volumes,  cloth,  gilt  back.     Price  $1.75  each. 

Weal's  Charcoal  Sketches.  Three  books  in 
one  vol.,  cloth,  with  Twouty-oue  illustrations,  from 
original  designs,  by  Felix  O.  C.  Darley.    Price  $2.50. 

Frank  Forester's  Sporting  Scenes  and 
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BOOKS  FOR  LADIES  AND  MISSES. 

The  Ladies'  Guide  to  True  Politeness 
and  Perfect  Manners.  By  Miss  Leslie. 
Cloth,  full  gilt  back.     Price  $1.75. 

The  Ladies'  Complete  Guide  to  Needle- 
work and  Embroidery.  113  Illustrations. 
Cloth,  gilt  back.     Price  $1.75. 

Ladies'  Work  Tahle  Book.  With  Illustra- 
tions and  full  gilt  back,  cloth.     Price  $1.50. 

GEORGE    SAND'S    WORKS. 

Consuelo.  Translated  from  the  French,  by  Fay- 
ette Robinson.     Oue  volume.     Price  75  cents. 

Countess  of  Rudolstadt.  The  Sequel  to 
"  Consuelo."     Price  75  cents. 

Consuelo  and  Countess  of  Rudolstadt. 
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Indiana.  A  very  bewitching  and  interesting  work. 
Paper  cover  $1.50  ;    or  in  cloth,  $1.75. 

Jealousy.  Complete  in  one  volume,  paper  cover. 
Price  $1.50  ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  $1.75. 

Fanchon,  the  Cricket.  One  vol.,  paper  cover. 
Price  $1.00  ;  or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  $1.50. 

First  and  True  Love.  By  author  of  "  Con- 
suelo," "  Indiana,"  etc.     Illustrated.     Price  75  cents. 

The  Corsair.     A  Venetian  Tale.     50  cents. 

CUSTAVE    AIMARD'S    WORKS. 

The  White  Scalper.     Price  50  cents 

The  Freebooters.     Price  50  cents. 

The  Rebel  Chief.    Price  75  cents. 

The  Border  Rifles.    Price  75  cents. 

The   Prairie   Flower.     Price  75  cents. 

The  Indian  Scout.     Price  75  cents. 

The  Trail  Hunter.     Price  75  cents. 

The   Indian  Chief.     Price  75  cents 

The   Bed  Track.     Price  75  cents. 

The  Pirates  of  the  Prairies.    Price  75  cents. 

The  Trapper's  Daughter.    Price  75  cents. 

The   Tiger   Slayer.     Price  75  cents. 

The  Gold  Seekers.     Price  75  cents. 


MISS    BREJIER'S     BEST    WORKS. 

The  Neighbors.  One  vol.,  paper  cover.  Priee 
$1.50  ;    or  in. one  volume  cloth,  for  S1.75. 

The  Home.  One  volume,  paper  cover.  Price  $1.50; 
or  in  one  volume,  cloth,  lor  $1.75. 

The  Fnther  and  Daughter.  One  volume, 
paper  cover.     Price  Sd.50  ;  or  in  cloth,  for  cl.75. 

The  Four  Sisters.  Oue  vol.,  paper  cover.  Price 
$1.50;  or  in  oue  volume  cloth,  for  $1.75. 

Life  in  t  he  Old  "World  ;  or,  Two  Tears  in  Swit' 
zerlaud  and  Italy.  Complete  in  two  large  duodecimo 
volumes,  of  near  1000  pages.     Price  $3.50. 

EUGENE    SUE'S  GREAT   NOVELS. 

Illustrated  Wandering  Jew.  With  Eighty- 
seven  large  Illustrations.  Price  $1.50  in  paper;  or 
in  cloth,  for  $2.00. 

Mysteries  of  Paris;  and  Gerolstein,  the 
Sequel  to  it.  Complete  in  one  vol..  paper  cover. 
Price  £1.50  in  paper  ;  or  in  cloth,  for  $2.00. 

Martin  the  Foundling.  Illustrated.  Paper 
cover.     Price  $1.50  ;  or  in  cloth,  $2.00. 

First  Love.    Price  50  cents. 

Woman's  Love.     Illustrated.    Price  50  cents. 

The  Ilan-of-W ar's-Man.     Price  50  cents. 

Tlic  Female  Bluebeard.    Price  50  cents. 

Raoul  De  Surville.     Price  25  cents. 

GEORGE     LIPPARD'S     WORKS. 
The  Quaker  City  ;  or,  The  Monks  of  Mouk  Hall. 

Complete  in  oue  large  octavo  volume.    Price  $1.50  in 

paper  ;  or  $2.00  in  cloth. 
Legends  of  the  American    Revolution  ; 

or,    Washington   and  his  Generals.     Price  $1.50  in 

paper  ;  or  $2.00  in  cloth. 
Paul    Ardenheim;    the    Monk   of   Wissabikon. 

Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.     Price  $1.50  in 

paper  ;  or  $2.oO  in  cloth. 
Blanche  of  Brandywine.      A  Romance  of  the 

American    Revolution.     Price    $1.50    in   paper;     or 

$2.00  in  cloth. 
The    Mysteries    of   Florence.     Complete    in 

one  large  octavo  volume.     Price  $1.00  in  paper  ;  or 

$2.00  iu  cloth. 
The  Empire  City;  or,  New  York  by  Night  and 

Day  ;   its  Aristocracy  and  its  Dollars.     Price  75  cts. 
Memoirs  of  a  Preacher;  or,  the  Mysteries  of 

the  Pulpit.     Full  of  illustrations.     Price  75  cents. 
The  Nazarene.    Price  75  cents. 
Legends  of  Mexico.     Price  50  cents. 
The    Entranced;    or,   the   Wanderer    ot 

Eighteen  Centuries.     Price  25  cents. 

Washington  and  his  Men;  or,  the  Second 
Series  of  the  Legends  of  the  Revolution.  Priee  75  cts. 

The  Bank  Director's  Son.    Price  25  cents. 

The  Ride  with  the  Dead.     Price  50  cents. 

The  Robbers.  By  Frederick  Schiller.  With  a 
Preface,  by  George  Lippard.     Price  25  cents. 

DOW'S     PATENT    SERMONS. 

4®~  Each  volume,  or  series,  is  complete  in  itself,  and 

volumes  are  sold  separately  to  any  one,  or  in  sets. 
Dow's  Short  Patent  Sermons.     First  Se- 

ries.      By  Dow,    Jr.     Containing  12S  Sermons. 

Cloth,  for  $1.50  ;   or  in  paper,  $1.00. 
Dow's   Short   Patent   Sermons.      Second 

Series.     By  Dow,  Jr.     Containing  144  Sermons. 

Complete  in  cloth,  for  $1.50;  or  paper,  for  $1.00. 
Dow's    Short    Patent    Sermons.      Third 

Series.     By  Dow,  Jr.     Containing  116  Sermons. 

Complete  in  cloth,  for  $1.50  ;  or  paper,  for  $1.00. 
Dow's    Short    Patent   Sermons.     Fourth 

Series.     By  Dow,  Jr.     Containing  152  Sermons. 

Complete  in  cloth,  for  $1.50;  or  paper,  for  $1.00. 

BULWER'S  (LORDLYTTON)  NOVELS. 

The  Roue  ;  or,  The  Hazards  of  Women.  50  cents. 
The  Oxonians.  A  Sequel  to  "  The  Roue."  50  cts. 
Falkland.  A  Novel.  One  vol.,  octavo.  25  cents. 
The    Courtier.     By  Sir  E.  L.  Bulwer.     25  cent*. 


Copies  of  any  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent.  Free  of  Postage,  on  Receipt  of  Ketail  Price, 
By  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


T.  B.  PETEESON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


11 


MORFORD'S  GREAT  WAR  NOVELS. 

Shoulder  Straps.  A  novel  of  New  York  and  the 
Army  in  l sri'j.  By  Henry  Morford.  For  Stay-at-home 
Guards,  Government  Officials,  Army  Contractors, 
etc.     Price  $1.50  in  paper ;   or  cloth,  for  $1.75. 

The  Days  of  Shoddy.  A  Novel  of  the  Great 
Rebellion  of  1S61.  By  author  of  "  Shoulder  Straps." 
Price  $1.50  in  paper,  or  $1.75  in  cloth. 

The  Coward.  A  Novel  of  Society  and  the  Field 
in  1861.  By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "  Shoulder 
Straps."     Price  $1.50  in  paper,  or  $1.75  in  cloth. 

T.    S.    ARTHUR'S    BEST    WORKS. 

Price  Fifty  cents  each. 
The  Lady  at  Home.  The  Lost  Bride. 

Year  after  Marriage. 
Cecilia  Howard. 

Orphan  Children. 

Love  in  High  Life. 

Debtor's  Daughter. 
Agnes;  or,  The  Possessed. 
Love  in  a  Cottage. 
Mary  Moreton. 

The    Divorced   Wife. 
The  Two  Brides. 
Lucy  Saudford. 
The  Banker's  Wife. 

The    Two   Merchants. 
Insubordination. 

Trial  and  Triumph. 
The  Iron  Rule. 

Pride  and  Prudence. 
Lizzie  Glenn;  or,  The  Trials  of  a  Seam- 
stress.   Price  $1.75  in  cloth,  or  paper  cover,  $1.50. 
Six  Nights   -with   the    Washiiigtonians. 
Illustrated.     Price  in  paper  $1.50  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.75. 

THE    SHAKSPEARE  NOVELS. 

By  Robert  Folkstone  Williams. 
The  Secret  Passion.    Price  $1.00. 
The  Youth  of  Shakspeare.     Price  $1.00. 
Shakspeare  and  his  Friends.     Price  $1.00. 
The  three  above  Books  are  also  published  complete  in 
one  large  octavo  volume,  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

D'ISRAELI'S    POPULAR    NOVELS. 
Vivian  Grey.     One  volume.    Price  75  cents. 
Venetia;  or,  Lord  Byron  and  his  Daughter.  50  cts. 
The  Young  Duke.    Price  50  cents. 
Henrietta  Temple.    A  Love  Story.    50  cents. 
Contarini  Fleming.    Price  50  cents. 
Miriam  Alroy.    A  Romance  of  the  12th  Century. 
Price  50  cents. 

LANGUAGES  WITHOUT    A    MASTER. 

Price  Forty  Cents  each. 
French    "without     a    Master.     In  Six  Easy 

Lessons.     By  A.  H.  Monteith,  Esq. 
Spanish    -without   a   Master.     In  Four  Easy 

Lessons.     By  A.  H.  Monteith,  Esq. 
German    without    a    Master.      In  Six  Easy 

Lessons.     By  A.  H.  Monteith,  Esq. 
Italian    without    a    Master.     In   Five   Easy 

Lessons.     By  A.  H.  Monteith,  Esq. 
Latin  without  a  Master.    In  Six  Easy  Lessons. 

Any  one  or  all  of  the  above  five  Languages  can  be 
learned  by  any  one  without  a  teacher,  with  the  aid  of 
these  books,  by  A.  H.  Monteith.  The  five  books  are  also 
bound  in  one  large  volume,  in  cloth.  Price  $1 .75. 

DR.    HOLLICK'S    WORKS. 

Dr.  Hoi  lick's  Anatomy  and  Physiology; 

with  a  large  Dissected  Plate  of  the  Human  Figure. 
Price  $1.25,  bound. 
Dr.    Hollick's     Family      Physician.       A 

Pocket-Guide  for  Everybody.     Price  25  cents. 


HARRY    COCKTON'S    WORKS. 
Valentine  Vox,  the  Ventriloquist.     Price 

75  cents  ;  or  a  liner  edition  in  cloth,  for  $2.00. 
Sylvester    Sound,     the     Somnambulist. 

Illustrated.     One  volume.     Price  75  cents. 
The  Sisters.  By  Harry  Cockton,  Price  75  cents. 
The  Steward.    By  Harry  Cockton.  Price  75  cents. 
Percy  Effingham.    By  Harry  Cockton.    75  cents. 

WORKS   BY    THE    BEST    AUTHORS. 

Conast.ock's   Elocution   and  Reader.     Eu- 

larged.  By  Andrew  Comstock  and  Philip  Lawrence. 
With  236  Illustrations.     Half  morocco.     Price  $2.00. 

Comstock's  Colored  Chart.  Every  School 
should  have  a  copy  of  it.     Price  $5.00. 

The  Quaker  Soldier;  or,  The  British  in 
P uiladelphia.  By thelateCol.  J.  Richter  Jones. 
Paper  cover.     Price  $1.50  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.75. 

Lady  Maud,  the  Wonder  of  Kingswood 
Chase.  By  Pierce  Egan.  Price  $1.50;  or  bound 
in  cloth,  for  $1.75. 

Wilfred  Montrcssor;  or,  the  Secret  Order  oi 
the  Seven.  With  Eighty-seven  Illustrative  Engrav- 
ings.     Price  $1  50  in  paper,  or  $1.75  in  cloth. 

Cnrrcr  Lyle ;  or,  The  Autobiography 
of  an  Actress.  By  Louise  Reeder.  One  volume, 
paper  cover.     Price  $1.50  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.75. 

Coal  and  Coal  Oil,  and  the  other  Mine- 
rals of  the  Earth.  By  Eli  Bowen,  Esq., 
Professor  of  Geology.     Price  $1.75. 

Love  and  Money.  By  J.  B.  Jones.  Priee  SI. 59 
in  paper;  or,  $1  75  in  cloth. 

Wild  Southern  Scenes.  By  author  of  "Wild 
Western  Scenes."     Paper  $1.50  ;  cloth,  for  $1.75. 

The  Roman  Traitor.  By  H.  W.  Herbert.  One 
volume,  paper.     Price  $1.50;  or  in  cloth,  for  $1.75. 

Life  and  Beauties  of  Fanny  Fern.  One 
volume,  paper.     Price  $1.50  ;  or  in  cloth,  for  $1.75. 

Lola  3Iontez'  Lectures  and  Life.  One  vol., 
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Secession,  Coercion  and  Civil  War.  A  Pro- 
phecy of  the  Southern  Rebellion.    1  vol.,  cloth,  $1.75. 

The  French,  German,  Spanish,  Latin, 
and  Italian  Langunges  without  a 
Master.  By  A.  fl.  Monteith,  Esq.  One  volume, 
cloth,  price  $1.75. 

Liebig's  Complete  "Works  on  Chemistry. 
One  large  octavo  volume,  cloth.     Price  $2.00. 

Lives  of  Jack  Sheppard  and  Guy 
Fa-wkcs.     Illustrated.     One  volume,  cloth,  $1.7.5. 

Whitefriars  ;  or,  the  Days  of  Charles  the  Second. 
By  author  of  "  Whitehall."'  Illustrated.  Price  $1.('0. 

The  Cabin  and  Parlor.  By  J.  Thornton 
Randolph.   Price  $1.50  in  paper  ;  or  in  cloth  for  $1:75. 

The  Laws  and  Practice  of  the  Game  of 
Euchre.  By  a  Professor.  This  is  the  only  recog- 
nized book  on  the  subject  published  in  the  world. 
Complete  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  price  One  Dollar. 

The  Miser's  Heir.  By  P.  H.  Myers.  Price  50 
cents  in  paper  cover  ;  or  75  cents  in  cloth. 

Tangarna.    A  Poem.    One  vol.,  cloth.    Price  $1.00. 

Southern  Life,  or  Inside  Views  of 
Slavery.     Price  $1.00. 

Henry  Clay's  Portrait.  By  Nagle.  Size  22 
by  30.     Price  $1.00  a  copy.    Originally  sold  at  $5.00. 

Gen.  Scott's  §5.00  Portrait.  Price  One  Dollar. 

LIEBIG'S    WORKS    ON    CHEMISTRY. 

Agricultural  Chemistry.  By  Baron  Justus 
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Animal  Chemistry.     Price  25  cents. 

The  Potato  Disease.    Prico  25  cents. 

Familiar    Letters    on    Chemistry. 

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Liebig's  Complete  "Works  on  Chemistry. 
The  whole  of  the  above  Five  works  of  Professor  Lie- 
big  are  also  published  complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume,  bound  Price  $2.00.  The  two  last  work* 
are  only  published  in  the  bound  volume. 


Copies  of  any  of  the  above  Works  will  be  sent,  Free  of  Postage,  on  Receipt  of  Retail  Price, 
By  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


12 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


WAVERLEY     NOVELS. 

KEW   "NATIONAL  EDITION"  of  the  WAVERLEY 
NOVELS.     By  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

This  is  the  cheapest  complete  edition  of  the  "  Waver- 
ley  Novels"  published,  all  of  them  being  contained  in 
Jive  large  octavo  volumes,  with  a  magnificent  Portrait 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  engraved  from  the  last  Portrait  for 
which  he  ever  sat,  at  Abbottsford,  with  his  Autograph 
tinder  it.  This  "  New  National  Edition"  is  complete  in 
Five  large  octavo  volumes,  with  handsomely  engraved 
steel  Title  Pages  to  each  volume,  the  whole  making 
nearly  four  thousand  very  large  double  columned  pages, 
in  good  type,  and  handsomely  printed  on  the  finest 
of  white  paper,  and  bound  in  the  most  substantial 
manner.  This  edition  of  the  Waverley  Novels  con- 
tains all  the  Author's  last  additions  and  corrections. 

Volume  1  contains  Waverley,  Guy  Mannering,  Anti- 
quary, Rob  Roy,  Black  Dwarf, 
and  Old  Mortality. 

"  3  "  Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,  Bride  of 
Lammermoor,  Legend  of  Mon- 
trose, Ivanhoe,  Monastery,  and 
the  Abbot. 

"  3  "  Kenil worth.  Pirate,  Fortunes  of 
Nigel,  Peveril  of  the  Peak,  and 
Queulin  Durward. 

"        4-        "        St.   Konan's    Well,     Redgauntlet, 
Betrothed,  Talisman,  and  Wood- 
stock. 
'•        5         "        Highland   Widow,    Two   Drovers, 
My  Aunt  Margaret's  Mirror,  Ta- 
pestried   Chamber,     the    Laird's 
Jock,  Fair  Maid  of  Perth.  Annie 
of   Geierstein,    Count    Robert  of 
Paris,    Castle     Dangerous,    The 
Surgeon's  Daughter,  and  a  Glos- 
sary for  the  Novels. 
This  "New  National  Edition"  is  bound   in    the  fol- 
lowing styles  of  binding,  aud  at  the  following  prices: 

Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  Cloth,  in  five  volumes $1;") .00 

"      "      "         Full  Law  Library  style 17  .">0 

"      "      "  Half  Calf,  antique 25.00 

"      "      "         Half  Calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc 25.00 

SCOTT'S  "  WAVERLEY  NOVELS." 

CHEAPEST  EDITION  IN  THE  WORLD.  ' 
Price  Twenty  Cents  a  volume. 
Heart  of  Mid  Lothian,     Guy  Mannering, 
Fortunes  of    Nigel.  Tile    Antiquary, 

Bride  ofhaminermoor,    Old  Mortality, 
Peveril  of  the  Peak,         Tlie  Talisman, 
Fair    Maid  of  Perth,         The  Monastery, 
Quentin  Durward,  The  Betrothed, 

Highland  Widow,  Kenilworth, 

Anne  of  Geierstein,  Red  Gauntlet, 

iSt.  Ronan's  Well,  Waverley, 

Woodstock,  The  Pirate, 

Ivanhoe,  The  Abbot, 

Count  Robert  of  Paris,  Rob  Roy, 

Surgeon's  Daughter  <fc  Castle  Dangerous 
Black   Dwarf  and  Legend  of  Montrose. 

Above  edition  is  complete  in  twenty-six  volumes, 
price  Twenty  cents  each,  or  Five  Dollars  for  the  set. 

A  finer  edition  is  also  published  .if  each  of  the  above, 
complete  in  tweuty-six  volumes,  price  Fifty  cents  each, 
or  Ten  Dollars  for  the  complete  set. 

Moredun.  A  Tnle  of  1210.  Price  50  cents. 
Tales  of  a  Grandfather.  Parti  Price  2">  cents. 
Lockhart's  Life  of    Scott.     Complete  in   one 

volume,  cloth.     With  Portrait.     Price$2.50. 
The  Comply   Prose   and    Poelicnl    Works    of 

Sir    Walter    Scott,  are  also  published   in  ten 

volumes,  bound  in  Full  calf      Price  $60  00, 
Sir  Walter    Scott's    Poetical  Works.     In 

one  volume,  Full  calf.     Price  $5  00. 


HUMOROUS    AMERICAN    WORKS. 

Original  Illustrations  by  Darley  and  Others. 

Done  up  in  Illuminated  Covers. 

Being  the  most  Humorous  and  Laughable  Books  ever 
printed  in  the  English  Language. 

Major  Jones'  Courtship.     With  Thirteen  Il- 
lustrations, from  designs  by  Darley.     Price  7.3  cents. 

Drama  in  Pokerville.   By  J.  M.  Field.     With 

Illustrations  by  Darley.     Price  75  cents. 
Louisiana    Swamp    Doctor.      By   author  of 

"  Cupping  on  the  Sternum."     Illustrated  by  Darley. 

Price  75  cents. 
Charcoal  Sketches.     By  Joseph  C.  Neal.    With 

Illustrations.      Price  75  cents. 
Yankee   Amongst   the  Mermaids.     By  W. 

E.  Burton.  With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  75  cents. 
Misfortunes  of  Peter  Faber.     By  Joseph  C. 

Neal.  With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price  75  cents. 
Major   Jones'   Sketches  of  Travel.     With 

Illustrations,  from  designs  by  Darley.  Price  75  cents. 
Quarter    Race    in    Kentucky.      By  W.  T. 

Porter,  Esq.  With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  75  cents. 
Sol.  Smith's  Theatrical  Apprenticeship. 

Illustrated  by  Darley.     Price  75  cents. 
Yankee  Yarns  and  Yankee  Letters.     By 

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Big   Bear    of  Arkansas.      Edited    by  Wm.  T. 

Porter.  With  Illustrations  by  Darley.  Price  75  cents. 
Major   Jones'  Chronicles    of    Pineville. 

With  Illustrations  by  Darley.     Price  75  cents. 
Life  and  Adventures    of   Perciral    Ma- 
berry.     By  J.  H.  Ingraham.     Price  75  cents. 
Frank    Forester's     Q,uomdon    Hounds. 

By  H.  W.  Herbert.  With  Illustrations.  Price  75  cts. 
Pickings  from  the  "  Picayune."  75  cents. 
Frank    Forester's    Shooting    Box.    With 

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Western  Scenes  ;  or,  Life  on  the  Prairie. 

Illustrated  by  Darley.     Price  75  cents. 
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Price  75  cents. 
Simon    Suggs. — Adventures  of    Captain 

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Stray     Subjects     Arrested     and      Bound 

Over.     Willi  Illustrations  by  Darley.     75  cents. 

Frank    Forester's    Deer-    Stalkers.     With 

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Adventures  of  Captain  Farrago.    By  Hon. 

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14 


T.  B.  PETEBSON  &  BUOTHEES'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OE  PUBLICATIONS. 


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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


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Warwick  Woodlands 75 

The  DeerStalkers 7.5 


Major  Jones'  Courtship. ..75 
Major  Jones'  Travels.  .75 
Simon  Sujrgs's  Advent'es  75 
Major  Jones'  Chronicles  of 


lajor  Join 

Pinevill 

Peublossom's  Wedding 75 

Widow  Rugby's  Husband. 75 
Big  Bear  of  Arkansas.... 75 
Western   Scenes,  or   Life 

on  the  Prairie 75 

Streaks  of  Squatter  Life.. 75 
Pickings  from  Picayune.  .75 

Stray  Subjects 75 

Louisiana  Swamp  Doctor.. 75 
Charcoal  Sketches  75 

Misfortunes  Peter  Faber..75 

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Major  O  Regan's  Adven..75 
Sol.    Smith's   Theatrical 

Apprenticeship 75 

Sol.    Smith's    Theatrical 

Jonruiy-work 75 

The  Quarter  Race  in  Ken- 
tucky  75 

Mysteries  of  Backwoods    75 

Peretval  Maj  berry 75 

Yankee  Yarns  and  Yan- 
kee Letters 75 

Fudge  Fumble 75 

Aunt  Patty's  Scrap  Bag.  75 

American  Joe  Miller 50 

Following  the  Drum 50 


Life  of  Dick  Parker 25 

Life  of  Jack  Ketch 25 

Mother  Brownrigg 25 

Galloping  Dick 25 

Biddy  Woodhull 25 

The  Rebel  and  Rover 25 

Harry  Thomas 25 

Mrs.   Whipple  and  Jesse 
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Life  of  Jonathan  Wild 25 

Life  Ninon  De  L*Enclos..2.5 

The  River  Pirates 25 

Dark  Shades  of  City  Life. 25 

The  Rats  of  the  Seine 25 

Mysteries  of  Bedlam 25 

Charles  Ransford 25 

Life  of  Ar;hur  Spring. ...25 

The  Valley  Farm 25 

The  lion  Cross -25 


FirstLove 25 

Rody  tiie  Rover 25 

Raoul  De  Surville 25 

lOJack'a  Fight  for  Life. ..25 

Ghost  Stories 25 

The  Two  Merchants s5 

Year  after  Marriage 25 

Love  in  High  Life 25 

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The  Debtor's  Daughter. .  .25 

The  Lady  at  Home 25 

Mary  Moreton 25 

The  Two  Brides 25 

Mysteries  of  a  Convent...  .25 

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Blood  and  the  Beagles 25 

Highwayman's  Avenger.. 25 
Mary  Bate  man 25 


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ee  Guardsmen 75 

Guerilla  Chief 75 

Jack  Adam's  Adventures. 75 

Twenty  Years  After 75 

Bragelonne,  Sonof  Athos  ~ 


Arthur  O'Leary 5  5    Wallace,  Hero  Scotland.  1  00 

Con  Cresan 75    Forty-five  Guardsmen 75 

Kate  O'Donoghue 75  |  Tom  Bowling's  Advent's  75 

Horace  Ttmpleton 75  I  Life  of  Robert  Bruce 75 

Davenport  Dunn 75  I  The  Gipsy  Chief 75 


Following  the  Drum 60 

Valei-tine  Vox 75 

Twin  .Lieutenants 75 

8  tories  of  Mi  aterloo 75 

The  Soldier's  Wife 75 


Massaure  of  Glencoe 75 

Life  of  Guv  Fawkes 75 

Child  of  Watetloo 75 

Advent's  of  Ben  Brace. ..75 
Life  of  Jack  Ariel 75 


GEORGE  LIPPARD'S  WORKS. 


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Mouksot  MnnkHall.gl  50 

Paul  Ardenheim 150 

Washington  and  his 
Generals,  or  Legends 
of  the  Revolution....  1  50 

Blanche  of  Brandy  wine  1  50 
Above  in  cloth  £2  each. 


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The  Empire  City...: 75 

Memoirs  of  a  Preacher...  .75 

The  Nazarene 75 

Washington  and  his  Men. 75 

Legends  of  Mexico .">0 

The  Entranced 25 

Bank  Director's  Son 25 


J.  F.  SMITH'S  WORKS. 

The  Usurer's  Victims  or      I  Adelaide  WaMgravet  or, 
Thomas  Balscomb 75  |      Trials  of  a  Governess..  .75 

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LIEBIG'S  WORKS  ON  CHEMISTRY. 

Agricultural  Chemistry.  .25  I  The   Potato   Disease,  and 

Animal  Chemistry 25  |      how  to  prevent  it.    ...     25 

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WADSWORTH'S  SERMONS. 

America's  Mission 25  1  Thanksgiving  i  a  Thanks- 
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acter 25  |  Politics  in  Religion 12 

Henry  Ward  Beeeher  on  War  and  Emancipation 15 

Kfev.  William  T.  Brantley's  Union  Sermon 15 

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Hans  Mreitmannabout  Town,  and  other  Ballads 75 

Popping  the  Question  ;  or.  The  Belle  of  the  Ball 75 

The  Brigand;  or  Demon  of  North.    By  Victor  Hugo..  75 
The  Irish  Sketch  Book.     By  William  M.  Thackeray. .  .75 

Li'T'on  Hall.     By  Mark  Lemon 75 

Elsie's  Married  Life.     By  Mrs.  Daniels 75 

Roanoke;  or,  Where  is  Utopia?    By  C.  H.Wiley 75 

'1  he  Crock  of  Gold.    By  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper 75 

The  Twins  and  Heart.    By  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper.  .75 
Ned  Musgrave;  or  Most  Unfortunate  Man  in  theWorld  75 

The  Red  Indians  of  Newfoundland.     Illustrated 75 

Webster's  and  Hayne'sSpeechesin  Reply  to  Col.  Foote.75 


The  BeautilulNun 75 

Banditti  oft    e  Prairie...  .75 

Tom  Racquet 75 

Salathiel.by  Croly 75 

Corinne.or  Italy 75 

Aris  toe  racy 75 

Inquisition  in  Spain 75 

Flirtations  in  America.  ...75 
The  Coquette 75 


Whitehall 75 

Mysteries  of  Three  Cities. 75 

Paul  Periwinkle 75 

Genevra 75 

Nothing  to  Say 75 

Father  Clement,  cloth  —  75 

do.  paper... '0 

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New  Hope;  or  Rf scue 75 


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Life  of  Prest.  Andrew  Johnson.  Cloth  SI  ;  paper  75  cts. 
Lives  of  Seymour  aud  Blair.    Paper  50  cts.  s  cloth  75 cts. 

GOOD  BOOKS  at  50  CENTS  EACH. 

The  Woman  In  led.    By  a  noted  author 50 

Twelve  Months  of  Matrimony.    By  Emilie  F.  Carlen..50 


Leah,  the  Forsaken 50 

The  Monk, by  Lewis 60 

Diary  of  a  Physician 50 

EllaStratford 50 

Josej  blue 50 

Robirt  Oaklands 50 

Abedncgo,  Money  Lender  50 
Female  Lite  in  New  York  .'0 

Agnes  Grey 50 

Bell  Brandon 50 

Beautiful  French  Girl.... 50 

Moreton  Hall 50 

Jenny  Ambrose 50 

The  Orphans  ai  d  Caleb  Field.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

Ryan '3  Mysteries  of  Love,  Courtship. and  Marriage 50 

Trial,  Lite  and  Execution  of  Anton  Probst 60 

Father  Tom  and  the  Pope.    Cloth  75;  orin  paper 50 

Ladies'  aud  Gentlemen's  Science  of  Etiquette 50 

Larduer's  One  Thousand  Ten  Things  Worth  Knowing. 50 
Trial  of  the  Assassins  and  Conspirators  for  the  Murder 

of  Abraham  Lincoln.     Cloth  51.50;  or  in  taper 50 

The  Great  Iuipeachmont  and  Trial  of  President  Andrew 

Johnson.     Fine  Cloth  Edition  gl.50;  oriupaper 50 

GOOD  BOOKS  at  25  CENTS  EACH. 


Admiral's  Daughter 50 

The  Emigrant  Squire 60 

The  Orphan  Sisters 50 

Greatest  Plague  of  Life.  60 

Th  e  T  w  o  Lovers 60 

Fortune  Hunter 30 

Clifford  and  the  Actress. ..0 
Train's  Union  Speeches.. 50 

Romish  Confessional 50 

Allieford 50 

Victims  of  Amusements.  ,5ii 

Violet 0 

Life  of  Geu.McClellan. 


The  Woman  in  Grey.    By 

Mrs.  Gaskell ?5 

Mysteries  of  Bedlam 25 

Book  of  Ghost  Stories.. .  .25 

The  Iron  Cross 25 

The  Ladles'  Etiquette..  ..25 
Philip  in  Search  of  a  Wife. 25 
Nobleman's  Daughter. . .  .25 

Rifle  Shots 25 

Life  of  General  Meade 25 

G.  F.  Train  &  the  Fenians.i5 


Mysteries  of  a  Convent. .  .25 

The  Deformed 25 

Two  Prima  Donnas 25 

Mysterious  Marriage 25 

Jaek  Downing's  Letters.  .25 

Rose  Warrington 25 

Charles  Hansford 25 

Abbey  of  Innismoyle 25 

Glidilou's  Ancient  Egypt. 25 
Liteof  Bishop  Hughes... 25 
Liteof  General  Butler....  25  J 
Aunt  Margaret's  Trouble.  ByChas.  Dickens' Daughter.25 

Ma:iaou's  Exposition  of  Odd  Fellowship 25 

Knowlson's  Complete  Farrier,  or  Horse  Doctor 25 

Knowlaon's  Complete  Cow  or  Cattle  Doctor 25 

The  Complf  te  Kitchen  and  Fruit  Gardener 25 

The  Complete  Florist  aud  Flower  Gardener 25 

GOOD  BOOKS  at  $1.00  EACH. 

Adventures  of  Don  Quixote  and  Saucho  Panza gl  00 

WUitefriars;  or,  the  Days  of  Charles  the  Seconil 1  00 

Petersons'  Complete   Coin  Book,  with  facsimiles  of 
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Income  Tax  List  of  Residents  of  Philadelphia 1  00 

Southern  Life 1  001  Gen.  Scott's  Portrait..  1  00 

Tangarua,  a  Poem 1  00  J  Henry  Clay's  Portrait.  1  00 

FRANK  FORRESTER'S  BOOK. 

Frank  Forrester's  Sporting  Scenes  and  Characters.    With 
numerous  illustrations  by  uarley.  Two  vols,  cloth,  $4.0(3 

MILITARY  AND  ARMY  BOOKS. 

U.S.  Light lniau try Drlll.25  ,  Ellswor.h's  Zouave  Drin.25 

U.  S.  Government  lnfau-         1  he  Soldi  r's  Companion  25 

try  and  Rifle  Tactics...  25  |  The  Soldier's  Guide 25 

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Odd  Fellowship  Exposed. 13  i  Dr.    Berg's  Answer   to 
Sons  of  Malta  Exposed.  ..13        Archbishop  Hughes. . .  13 

Life  of  Rev.  John  Matf.t.13     Trainand  Hughes 10 

Dr.  Berg  on  Jesuits 13  j  'train  on  Slavery 10 

Arthur's  Receipts  for  Pneserviug  Fruits,  etc 13 

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